The Hungry Beast: Uprising
by Sar'Kalu
Summary: RATED M FOR A REASON! Extremely Dark! Sequel, kind of, to The Hungry Beast. In an alternative timeline where Harkin Black doesn't die at the hands of Effie Snow, he stands on the dais before District One awaiting the Volunteering of their Tributes. Naturally, he gains something of an interest in District Twelves female Tribute and what she could mean for him personally.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**

The Hungry Beast: Uprising

**Author**

Sar'Kalu

Summary

_In an alternative timeline where Harkin Black doesn't die at the hands of Effie Snow, he stands on the dais before District One awaiting the Volunteering of their Tributes. Naturally, he gains something of an interest in District Twelves female Tribute and what she could mean for him personally. _

Disclaimer

_Harry_ _Potter_ is the intellectual property of J.K Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Brothers and their affiliates. _The Hunger Games_ is the intellectual property of Suzanne Collins, Scholastic Publications, Lionsgate Film and their affiliates.

Rating

R18+: Extreme gore and violence; torture, physical, mental and emotional abuse. Do Not Try This A Home.

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><p><strong>[The Reaping, District One, 74 A.D.D]<strong>

_District One never changes_, Harkin thinks as he watched the ever eager losers stepped forwards as if they weren't nominating to die but were expecting to be given the worlds best job. Because they were lied to, all their lives. Never really told what happens when the Capitol sinks its claws and fangs into them. The escort, Raizen Vervain, is dressed in muted plum this year, his hair streaked with bloody red and gold. _It's not the worst combination he's worn_, Harkin reflects in mild amusement, _but it's up there_.

"Welcome!" Raizen greets them all like they're children, as if _their_ children aren't about to be slaughter all in the name of revenge. "Welcome!" He repeats, gloriously proud of his nominated District which is by far one of the richest and easiest to manage. _Luxury makes fools of us all_, Harkin snorts internally, his movement out the corner of Raizen's eye has the Reaper suddenly nervous and avoiding his form. "Welcome to the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games!"

Gloss and Cashmere roll their eyes in unison, scanning the group of trainees for the year, sneering at the collection, unimpressed. Raizen is swift to run through the customary greeting/run-down of information for the District, flattered and pleased as the gathering of Sheeple clap and cheer enthusiastically at his words. After 74 years, District One has become particularly good at pretending. They had to be; luxury came with a price and that price was the eyes of the Capitol on them 24/7.

Raizen has come to the most important segment of the day and he's practically vibrating in excitement, his hands shuffling through his cards with distinct pleasure as he slides them into his pocket and opens his arms wide, grinning brightly, flashing teeth that are silvery in the sunlight. It sends the Victors behind him into a series of muted winces, unwilling to show any kind of discomfort in front of millions of witnesses. Snow would consider it an insult and none of them are desirous of pissing of the one man who could kill them all. They are District One Careers, not suicidal.

"Do we have any volunteers?" He asks, hoping that this year will be like the last and those prior.

Raizen isn't disappointed as a young woman with golden hair and emerald green eyes with delicate features that show the clear selective breeding that is practiced in One. As she sauntered up the stairs and accepts Raizen's congratulations, she smiles like a hungry shark and smoothed her white dress over her knees as if she didn't already know she's perfect and beautiful.

"Hello, sweetheart," Raizen licks his lips hungrily as he eyed the teenager and Harkin knows that should she win she will undoubtably be like Finnick, Gloss and Cashmere, and sold to the highest bidder. Like himself. "What is your name?" The Reaper asks.

"Glimmer," she introduces herself winking at Raizen like she isn't disgusted and hateful of him. "Glimmer Triskele."

"It's lovely to meet you, Glimmer," Raizen say honestly, his eyes heating up and Cashmere leans against her brother, murmuring that _Raizen looks like a dog in heat_. She's not too quiet in her commentary and Harkin barks a laugh, smirking at the brother/sister duo who return his dangerous grin warily.

He has something of a reputation, even amongst his fellow Victors for being the fastest to deal with his Games. So fast that not even the Game Makers had been able to slow him. Six days, that was all it had taken he and his District partner to winnow their way through the Tributes before battling it out in a gory and bloody battle to the death that had nearly killed him. Should have killed him. He had made history that year and Snow had been furious. He was paying for it still, thirteen years after the 'event'. Only this time, not in blood and with his eventual death, but with his body and his eventual children. A whore for the Capitol and his District. Was it any wonder that he is bitter and angry?

The boy has volunteered in the time it took for him to build himself up into a quiet and ferocious fury, his green eyes, characteristic of his district, blaze beneath his shaggy black hair and narrow as the boy introduces himself as Marvel Gamine. It takes little time for the Tributes to farewell their families, longer than he, but then, he had no family. Not really. And then he was standing beside Gloss, Cashmere, Glimmer and Marvel as they await Raizen to arrive at the train station.

Marvel and Glimmer have already pledged each other their aid, boasting their talents as they jockey for first position amongst their Mentors and avoiding Harkin like the plague. Even they, children that they are, know that Harkin Black is not to be trifled with. They avoid his eyes and shift beneath his gaze, transforming from puppy-like children to wary predators that know that they are in the presence of a greater, crueler predator. His story is legend amongst District One and they are rightfully proud of him, but no less wary.

Harkin lounges on the couches, pretending that he's not listening to Gloss snap and snarl at Marvel for being an arrogant little shit who knows next to nothing of the Hunger Games, despite being somewhat Schooled; and Cashmere, who sneers at Glimmer who's alternatively preening and smirking beneath Harkin's gaze and fearfully avoiding him, torn between desire and the knowledge that he is the most dangerous person on this train. Raizen watches and gloats, watching the playbacks of the other Districts, his sudden exclamation of surprise and shock drawing Harkin's bored gaze which sharpens in interest at the sight of District Twelve gaining a volunteer.

"Play it back," Harkin orders, standing and making his way over to the vid-screen, his green eyes intent. "Now!" He snaps when Raizen stops too long, dazed at his close presence.

The incident plays out like prime-time drama. A girl, no older than twelve or thirteen is called up and then another girl, sixteen, seventeen interrupts, screaming that she volunteers. Harkin watches the way the dark haired girl moves, noting the wariness in her gaze and the shifting of her feet as the blonde girl leaps into her arms, screaming in desperate fear and denial. Harkin turns a smirk onto Cashmere who nods jerkily, her own pale green eyes wide with surprise and genuine emotive recognition of the girls protective instinct.

"Looks like we have a genuine player," Harkin muses, slouching back on the couch, crossing his long legs before him. He's lean and wiry quite unlike Gloss who sits beside him, still staring at Harkin as if the older man is his Mentor. Which he is, he always will be. Terrifying though Harkin can be.

"Oh please," Glimmer scoffs, rolling her eyes and checking her nails. "Like the little bint can keep up with us," she gestures between herself and Marvel, who's nervous but watching the girl from Twelve closely.

"You have a lot of work to to with this one," Harkin drawls to Cashmere who nods in agreement, both Victors ignoring the Tribute's high pitched wailing. Until they won the games, none of the Mentors or Victors from One and Two would treat Glimmer like she was a real human. It was a survival thing. Each year they dragged two kids to the Capitol and more often than not, returned with less than one.

Cashmere sighs in annoyance, already well pissed with the seventeen year old girl. "Tell me about it," she grumbles, gracefully collapsing into the seat beside the dark haired man and leaning against him.

Harkin smirks and throws an arm about his two younger Victors, shaking them lightly. "Now, now, kids, chin up. Maybe next year," Glimmer is obviously pissed at his assessment but Marvel drags her from the room before she can speak, clearly understanding their position with the three Victors much better than she.

Cashmere leant in closer to Harkin's neck, her breath gentle and sweet and he slowly tensed, knowing that she was about to pass on information that would likely make him extremely angry. "I didn't catch," her voice is breathy with fear, her eyes wide. Harkin clenches his jaw in understanding and closes his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he breathes in reply, a weight lifting from his shoulders as though what she hadn't just told him didn't spell her potential death.

Catching is what the people from District One call pregnancy amongst Victor's. Because it was like a disease. Catch yourself with a baby just once and then you'll never leave the Breeding Hall ever again. Sentenced to spend the rest of your life having children with the other Victor's, whether from your or another's District. Baby factories, that was what the female Victor's from One, Two and Four were. Unless of course, you weren't desirable enough. Sadly for Cashmere, she _was_ desirable and while she had 'caught' once before, a training accident had terminated the baby before the Capitol had caught wind of it. It was the only reason why she was still mentoring despite Gossamer being beyond breeding age and able to Mentor once more.

"I'm not," Cashmere finally replies, trembling in Harkin's arms and deliberately ignoring her brother who was pretending not to listen despite his tense and fearful posture telling her that he was. It was a delicate balance of pretending things weren't real or as bad as they seemed. It was how they survived.

Gloss finally blows a sharp breath from between his lips, narrowing his eyes as Raizen drives their Tributes back into the compartment with them. "Looks like we have to get back to business."

"Looks like," Harkin agrees easily, standing so quickly that he nearly knocks Cashmere to the floor, and ignoring the calf-eyes that Glimmer sends him, he slinks from the compartment with all the grace of a big cat and into his bedroom. Undoubtably Cashmere would visit him sometime tonight, for soothing words and even a tussle in the sack to remind him that he was more than the Capitols play thing. He appreciates this, even though he doesn't believe it.


	2. Chapter 2

**[Capitol City, Tribute Tower, 74 A.D.D]**

Harkin Black was fucking _pissed_ to high heaven. Not, you know, angry or anything. Nope, he was _soo_ sloshed right now he was seeing double. Which is of course why he runs into his beautiful protégé, Finnick Odair. Finnick, District Four's child prodigy, is dressed in loose, white linen slacks with a gold silk shirt and tan sandals that make him look like a Greek God or something. Or something, because Harkin's brain is pretty fucking fuzzy right now and Finnick's looking at him highly amused, as if he'd seen the apparently dangerous Victor fall flat on his face.

Which he has, of course.

"Harkin," Finnick drawls exactly the way he'd taught him all those years ago. "Fancy seeing you here. Back from an appointment?"

Harkin rolls his eyes, "naturally." He drops a hand into his pocket, fingering the silky white paper momentarily before withdrawing it and handing it to Finnick. "Compliments from our Lord and Master," Finnick sneers in reply, knowing that the Tribute centre is the one place Snow doesn't watch. It's part of their agreement and one they check up on every single day that they're there. They're not stupid, after all.

"Patriss Barrenhall," Finnick mutters, sickened. "I thought I'd rid myself of him."

Harkin snorts, too drunk to care that he's hardly acting like himself. "You thought wrong, boy-o." Finnick stares at his 'passion Mentor', the man who'd taught him to sell himself so that his family didn't die or worse, and wonders just what had gotten into the man.

"Hark," Finnick murmurs, slinking closer to the other man, wary of him despite his intoxication. "Are you okay?"

Harkin shrugs, rolling his broad shoulders and wincing at the feeling of his abraded back against his soft, silk shirt which he'd chosen for its fresh blood-like quality. Perfect for hiding those… inappropriate marks. "I entertained the lovely Delia VinVivi this evening," he drawls, his tone more liquid and enticing than Finnick can ever manage.

Finnick relaxes, assuming his Mentor is just tired. "Okay," the sea-green eyed man backed down, not wanting to pry. "I'll let you get your rest then."

"My thanks," Harkin acknowledged, sliding passed the District Four Victor and into the private training rooms, hitting the showers with a grateful expression. The sight of blood turning his shower water pink was, as per usual, a sight that makes his teeth ache and his fists clench. He hated Delia VinVivi, a woman who loved to make the biggest, baddest Victor's bleed. Finnick was too pretty for her taste while Harkin, the swift Victor, was perfect.

Harkin grunts as the high pressured water hits every cut and slice, made with both whip and knife, making him bleed even more. He braces his hands against the shower wall, the tiles pink and red with his blood, and bites back every scream he wishes to utter. He's about to step out when a high gasp alerts him to the fact that he's not alone anymore and he spins around in shock, disbelieving that anyone can sneak up on him, even when he's in pain, and meets steel grey eyes straight from District Twelve's Seam.

She's smaller in person, he notes as he narrows his eyes in silent threat, making the poor girl take a step back before the fire that drove her to Volunteer for her sister blazes in her eyes and sends her to his side. With gentle but no-nonsense hands she spins his stunned body around so she can inspect his wounds with compassionate eyes. He clenches his fist in silent rage but allows her to inspect him, grunting in disbelief as she leaves him to step out of the shower alone, fleeing the area, her braided dark hair the last thing he sees as she whips around the corner.

He's towelling himself off when the Volunteer from Twelve reappears with a med-pack in her hands. Her mouth goes all tight and disapproving at the sight and it's all he can do to not snap her neck in retaliation for her making him weak. She might interest him, but not even Finnick has seen him this naked and this bloody. No one has unless they've specifically bought him for that reason. Delia was just one in a long list; Snow punishing him for daring to finish his Games early. It's for this reason that he's never fallen victim to the self-blame and guilt of the other Victor's because there is no way that he'd ever demand his Games Peers to endure this as he did. Let alone his worst enemy.

"You'll be lucky if you don't get an infection," the girl is saying as she dabs alcohol on his wounds carefully, watching his muscles twitch and dance like snakes beneath his skin. She's like a kitten, wary and fearful of the world but foolishly brave as she thinks she's able to tackle it already. "You'll definitely scar, though."

Harkin snorts, amused. "Of course I won't, kitten," he sneers, standing, dismissive of her presence. He's entertained her enough. He's not a child to be cooed over, he's a warrior and a man.

Kitten stands, the cloth in her hand startlingly pink in the sterile, white bathroom. Her grey eyes are suspicious and fearful, "what do you mean?"

"I mean, little kitten," he smirks as he roughly towels his back, streaking the white fibres red. "That the Capitol won't allow me to."

"Cosmetic surgery," she realises, sneering at him. "Are you so vain-"

"Oh kitten," Harkin chuckles darkly, wrapping his towel about his waist and making the little Kitten blush when she realises that he's been nude the entire time she was there. "I'm not vain, none of us are, not even Finnick Odair." Harkin's rumbling laugh sends chills down the teens spine as she steps backwards, confused.

"What do you mean?!" She's shouting now, he notes idly, as if that will make her understand. She's like a child, railing at the world that's so unfair.

Harkin cocks his head to the side and snorts lightly, no longer quite as amused as before. He hates it when he's forced to recognise just how _young_ the Tributes all are. How young he had been. It's easier to pretend otherwise, healthier too. "You saw nothing here tonight," Harkin tells her, his emerald eyes serious and grave. "I don't even know how you slipped passed your guards tonight of all night, but I was not here and neither were you, kitten."

Kitten shakes her head in denial, "not unless you explain!"

She's like fire, he realises, snapping, crackling and out of control. Harkin's smirking as he thinks just how much fun Haymitch is going to have reigning in this little Fire Kitten, because you can't tame or control fire, you can only curb and guide and he hopes to hell that Haymitch realises this.

"Oh my little kitten," he coos sarcastically, eyes alight with danger. "You don't want to know, but I will impart this…" he pauses slightly to grin maliciously, "warning." He crowds the girl, ignoring the way that her hands dart around, searching for a weapon. Such instincts will only aid her in the arena. "Unless you are willing to suffer the consequences, be wary of what it means to win," Harkin smirks, his breath feathering across her face. "It's not just nightmares and guilt stricken Victor's, Kitten, but also the Capitol and what they want."

Kitten backs up, her grey eyes wide and childlike as she blushes furiously and shakes in her borrowed finery. "Leave me alone!" She hisses, catlike and furious. She shoots him one last confused glare before fleeing the bathroom, clearly regretting their meeting and obviously returning to her room.

Harkin watches her go and rolls his shoulders, tearing his scabs and wincing at the ticklish feeling that comes with the gentle rivulets of blood seeping from his deeper cuts. Delia has certainly done a number on him but at the moment, as he watches Twelves baby fire cat leave, he can't bring himself to care. After all, he has seen the token she wears, the token that had once belonged to a rebels daughter and knows that her wearing it in the arena will whip up the masses and ignite another rebellion. And that right there, is a thought sweeter than all the chocolate in the world because he knows just how much is will piss Coriolanus Snow off.

Even though he knows that all rebellions are bound to fail in the end…

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**A/N:**

There we go my dears, a bit of Katniss Everdeen and Finnick Odair for you all, because we all love them so. Review if you think something needs changing or if the stories decent so far, I do so love hearing from you all.

Kind regards,

Sar'Kalu


	3. Chapter 3

**[Tribute Parade, Capitol City, 74 A.D.D]**

He wove in between the Tributes and their chariots, his eyes gleaming with emerald fire as he sought out his two Victors. Gloss was standing towards the front of the parade, glaring at Marvel who was clearly not co-operating with his Mentor. While Cashmere was throwing up her hands and stalking away from Glimmer, who watched her go with sneakily pleased eyes. Harkin slid passed District Two, smirking at Enobaria and Brutus, who both returned his smile somewhat nervously, and interceding in Cashmeres flight.

Cashmere is wearing a sleek white gown with gold accents, a gold stole wrapped around her bare shoulders, and relaxes into his tight grip, submissive even though she's clearly annoyed. Harkin smirks, his shirt a deep, dark emerald that appears almost black and designed to bring out his hauntingly green eyes, rare even amongst his District. A tailored black suit finishes off the look while dark kohl rimming his eyes and a dusting of gold shimmer across his cheeks emphasises his natural born beauty. Cashmere is appreciative of his appearance and leans into his chest, the small clutch purse she's carrying has the white slip of paper that bears the names of their clients for the week inside.

Harkin's jaw tightens at the sight but otherwise manages to smile, his presence drawing Finnick towards him like a moth to a flame. The District Four Mentor is wearing a gold suit and a sea-green shirt that shimmers in the light. He too has been dusted with gold, his eyes heavily made up and drawing the unwary individual in with promises of seduction and adoration. Harkin knows he's taught Finnick well and that is something he is forever sorry for, because all he can see, as he watches the godly looking man, is the boy at fourteen who'd just murdered twelve other people.

"Finnick," Cashmere greets the golden haired man carefully, snapping her clutch closed with frosty pale green eyes.

Finnick smiles beautifully, flashing white teeth at Cashmere, "Cash, lovely as ever I see." He leans forwards and plucks her hand from her side and presses a brief, fleeting kiss to the back before releasing it with a tempting and seductive smile, his eyes gleaming.

Harkin smirks as his two pupils try and out-do each other in the game of seduction that they've been playing since Finnick was sixteen and Cashmere, eighteen. Gloss wanders over, joining in their ribald humour with ease. He's wearing a white suit with a blood red shirt and looks a bit like a rose, something that has all of the Victor's, even Gloss, unwittingly wincing and trying to avoid the monstrosity. It brings back far too many memories of their time in the President's garden where they learned of the truth behind the Games.

"What do you think, Hark?" Finnick asks, his sea-green eyes gleaming with humour as he cuts through Harkin's thoughts. At Harkin's raised eyebrow, Finnick smirks in amusement, "you weren't listening, were you?"

"No particularly," he drawls, scanning the crowd. "I was more interested in watching our ever delightful Tributes posture and fight amongst themselves." Harkin nods in the direction of Glimmer and Marvel who stand next to the Tributes from Two and arrogantly gesture to Finnick's Tributes who look trapped and peeved.

"Shit!" Gloss and Cashmere spit in unison, dashing towards their Tributes, Finnick hard on their heels.

Harkin snorts as he saunters off, let them deal with pissy Tributes too filled with arrogance and foolishness to wait for the arena. It is no business of his. He slinks through the crowd, searching for the man with gold eyes and dark skin. Sinner, he thinks his name is, and he finds him, muted in a crowd of colourful people, wearing black and dark red with gold rimming his eyes and his white teeth flashing bright against his skin. The stylist leaves his groupies, sauntering over to the two from Twelve and straightening their collars and smoothing the lines of their dress and suit. Even from here he can see the Volunteer from Twelve watching him, her grey eyes like storm clouds as confusion and rage flits across her expression.

Harkin smirks dangerously, his stride smoother than silk as he weaves his way through the crowd to the stylist and Twelves side. Haymitch Abernathy, District Twelves Mentor is by their side and giving them last minute advice. Harkin stills momentarily as he realises that Haymitch and the stylist have caught sight of him, their eyes widening in surprise and no small amount of fear, Haymitch going to far as to drop his hand into his pocket where he undoubtably keeps a small knife on his person. All the Victors do, regardless of whether knives were their forte or not.

"Black," Haymitch greets him warily, shifting into a more ready stance and sending his little Kitten into a mimicking pose while the other one, Blondie, watches in dumb confusion. "What are you doing here?"

Harkin smiles cruelly, his eyes gleaming. "Nothing much, scoping," he admits airily, as though he has nothing better to do.

Haymitch narrows his eyes, "go scope elsewhere, Black, I have no time for your sadism tonight."

Harkin slides closer, amused at the older mans protectiveness. "Oh," he breathes breathily, rolling his eyes at Kitten, watching her frown in confusion. "I know, Mitchy, you didn't really think you could hide her away forever did you?"

The stylist steps forwards, his dark eyes calm and collected in comparison to Haymitch's anger filled gaze. "You've came, you've seen and now you can leave," he says slowly, placing himself between Kitten and Harkin.

"I can't have thirteen more seconds to mess with Mitchy here?" Harkin smirks, knowing that the code would be picked up instantly. Sure enough, the stylists eyes widen in utter shock, Harkin swivels his gaze to Haymitch who is also staring at him in shock and surprise, interesting. "No?" He smirks, covering himself well. He holds up his hands in mock innocence, "very well," he concedes backing away. "See you around Haymitch, gold-eyes." Harkin slides around the side of the chariot, his ears listening hard as he waits. Haymitch and his rebellion buddy don't disappoint, neither does Kitten and Blondie.

"Who was he?" It's Kitten, and she doesn't sound happy. "And why were you acting like he was about to go on a mudering spree right here and now?"

Haymitch's reply is swift as it is harsh, "forget him, sweetheart, and you stay clear of him. Unless you like being suicidal, that is."

"His name is Harkin Black," Cinna adds, his voice still smooth and calm, like he hasn't just met the most dangerous man in Panem barring President Snow himself. "He's the winner of the sixty-first Hunger Games, the youngest after Finnick at fifteen."

Haymitch snorts, "yeah, but unlike Finnick he's a sadistic arse who enjoys it. He's a career killer, District One, he taught Cash and Gloss and even they are marginally terrified of him."

"How do you even know this?" The boy asks, clearly interested.

There is a pause before Haymitch sighs heavily and there is a sound like the unscrewing of a metal hip flask and the sound of Haymitch drinking heavy, raw liquor before sighing heavily once more and screwing the lid closed and Harkin can imagine the older man standing there with a defeated expression on his face and tired eyes. Haymitch had too big a heart to make a truly successful Mentor, he was, as the joke in One ran, King of the Bleeding Hearts, although Chaff, Seeder and Wiress all came close.

"He killed thirteen people in his games, his District partner coming close at five and his Games ended so quickly that they barely ran a full week and were so blood soaked that even the Capitolite's were shocked." Haymitch explains this in a dead voice, tired and sorrowful. "He killed everyone so quickly that the Game Makers weren't even able to introduce any Mutts because Harkin was so fucking dangerous on his own that they weren't necessary. He's the only career to successfully survive on his own wits and terms and hunt down all of his opposition."

Harkin listens to the explanation and feels something within his chest ache, almost painfully. He had though himself above the pain of hearing his fellow Victor's talk about his Games with fear, awe and hatred in their voices. As he swept from the gathering area, ignoring the way that Cashmere and Gloss are watching him from beside their Tributes and the way that Finnick is staring after him, a white envelope in his hand, and as he disappears from sight, Harkin can feel steel grey eyes watching him leave.

Kitten knows, Haymitch judges, Cinna watches and Cashmere, Gloss and Finnick wonder as he leaves and all Harkin can feel is that godawful ache in his chest, burning beneath his sternum and making his stomach roil like a boat on a tempestuous sea. He feels like screaming.


	4. Chapter 4

**[Victor's Lounge, Tribute Centre, Capitol City; 74 A.D.D]**

Finnick finds him sprawled out on the largest lounge, his booted feet resting heavily on the coffee table in front of him and his inky green shirt shimmering in the faux firelight like the feathers on a mallard duck in the summer dun. Harkin flicks emerald eyes up to meet the stormy gaze of Finnick in amusement, as if he isn't drinking himself steadily under the table for the third night in a row after entertaining his clients with their particularly sadistic predilections. Finnick has the right to be worried, this is not who Harkin is. Not really.

"Harkin," Finnick murmurs, sinking into the chair beside the older man, curious. "You ran from the parade, why?"

A question well worth asking, Harkin reflects, it is unlike him to flee or to avoid anyone and it had been clear that Gloss had desired his help with managing One's bitchy little Tributes this year. Harkin snorts and lifts the snifter of white alcohol to his lips and drinks deeply, wiping the excess away on his sleeve and smirking bitterly.

"I had a prior engagement," Harkin lies, well, it's not a complete lie, he admits to himself. Dahlia had demanded his appearance at her party to squeeze him for information on the Tributes and then… squeeze him.

Finnick wrinkles his nose in disgust, "Snow demands our presence-"

"You're presence, Merman," Harkin replies, the nickname smooth and kind on his tongue. He was genuinely fond of Finnick, the boy had been like a little brother at one stage, before the Capitol had gotten their hands on him and ruined that bright shining soul with their corruption and pain. Harkin tries to forget this, however, like he's trying to forget that his back is slicked red and weeping painfully. "I'm not necessary," Harkin continues like he hasn't just paused for a longer than normal time, Finnick watching the older man carefully. "Not really."

Finnick hums in disbelief, narrowing his eyes at Harkin but keeping silence because he knows Harkin, and knows that the green eyed Victor's not one for speaking when he thinks he's in the position to look week. District One had broken him long before the Games had sunk their claws into his soul, mind and body.

"I'm going to watch the replay," Finnick murmurs, settling beside Harkin, wondering if he waits long enough that Harkin might just break his silence.

"Have at it," Harkin grumbles, standing and moving to the cabinet and pouring himself another drink. "I'm going to go shower and then hit the training rooms. I stink of sex and sweat."

Finnick watches the other man leave, his long arms flung behind his head and his legs stretched out across the seat that Harkin had been sitting on. Finnick is still watching the replays when Enobaria turns up, her sharpened teeth gleam as she grins at Finnick and the District Four Mentor tries not to shiver at the pure mad malice in those eyes.

"'Baria," he greets carefully, swinging himself upright and smiling stiffly.

"Fish Breath," she grins before her eyes narrow in disturbed shock. "Is there a reason why you're bleeding, Finnick?" She asks, kneeling at his side, dropping the mock confrontational joke they have running between them and shows the bemused Victor his bloodied sleeve and pant legs.

Finnick blinks in surprise, "what the-?" He presses his hand to the seat fabric and pulls his hand away red with fresh blood. His mind flashes to what Harkin was wearing, how it had looked slightly wet and how Finnick had just dismissed it as 'sex and sweat' like Harkin had wanted him to. The gold clad Victor leaps to his feet, sea-green eyes horrified, "_Harkin_!"

Enobaria watches him leave in surprise before putting two and to together and she closes her eyes in horror, pressing her hands to the black couch and nearly vomiting when her tanned palm hovers before her eyes slick with scarlet blood. "I'm sorry," she breaths, understanding that as an orphan, Snow has to exert more pressure on Harkin to control him. This was the result. It sickened her, even if she was District Two, even she finds this kind of thing far beyond the pale.

…

…

Harkin enters the training rooms and strips off his shirt with violent motions, stunning the girl hiding in the archery range with his bloodied back that had been cut to ribbons. His shoulders were broad, and while he wasn't as tall as some of the other Victors, he was up in the top percentile at six foot tall, making his bloody back a horrific symbol of the power that the Capitol held over their Victors. Used and abused.

Harkin ignores the sparking pain from his whip marks and barks out a bitter laugh, picking up a thick hafted, leaf bladed spear and sending the point slamming hard into a target with a muffled 'thud'. He spins around again and snatches up a second spear, this time he grunts as he heaves the sharp blade into the target next to the first. The third his hefted with a snarl and the fourth with a full on enraged roar.

Behind the glass of the Archery Range, a bow in her hand and an arrow dangling between her forefinger and thumb, Katniss Everdeen watches Harkin Black rage and throw spear after spear into straw filled targets, the blades sinking in deeply with thump, after thump, after thump. As she watches him, she can well believe that he is the most dangerous of Victor's like Haymitch warned her and Peeta, but she can also see that he is not as powerful and above it all as he would have them all believe.

Harkin's retrieving the fourteenth or fifteenth spear that he's thrown that night when Finnick barrels into the room, his sea-green eyes shocked when they land on Harkin's bare, blood streaked torso. Harkin stands there dismayed and shamed, his eyes closing as he watches the devastation that overtakes Finnick's expression. This is not how he ever wanted Finnick to look. This is not how he ever wanted Finnick to find out. He opens his eyes, spear falling from nerveless fingers and bouncing against the floor, and meets Finnick's sorrowful gaze.

"I had hoped I was wrong," Finnick says, moving closer to Harkin who stands there motionless, his exertions have torn open his back once more and his pants and legs are soaked with rich red liquid that mixes with his sweat, stinging his cuts and bruises. "But I'm not, am I?"

"No," Harkin agrees allowing Finnick to steer him over to the stage where sparring matches are fielded and placidly allows Finnick to push him onto the dais and seat himself. "You were never supposed to figure it out."

"Then you should have healed yourself before sitting on a fabric lounge!" Finnick hisses, his desperate disbelief palpable in the air between them.

Harkin barks out a short laugh, spotting the smears of blood across the gold fabric of Finnick's suit. "I did always love the combination of red and gold," Harkin admits, his mind flashing back to the dreams he's always had, ever since he was a child. Of a boy like he had once been battling strange and fantastic beasts while living a charmed life with friends, food and safety. He wonders if that was what life had been like before the Dark Days.

"That's not funny, Hark," Finnick scolds as he yanks his jacket off and then his shirt, using the silky fabric to mop away the blood and baring his muscular chest to the evening air. Harkin rolls his eyes, knowing that Finnick was doing this as a not-so subtle way to thumb his nose at his stylist and escort.

"It never is," Harkin pouts, watching as Finnick jumps up and jogs into the bathrooms where the medic lockers are and returns with saline water, bandages and antibiotic salve that will undoubtably heal his back without scarring by morning. "Really?" He sighs as Finnick gestures for him to stand and strip.

"Yes, really," Finnick snaps, enraged by his friends state. "Strip, Hark, let me be sure that the bastards didn't flay your balls off."

Harkin laughs, shaking his head. "Not even I could walk if they had," he assures the District Four Mentor.

"That is so comforting," Finnick sneers, disgusted. "Stand still."

"Never would have thought you wanted to strip me bare again," Harkin laughs, his green eyes twinkling cheekily at his protégé.

Finnick rolled his eyes in return and hooked his two forefingers into the waistband of Harkin's pants and tugged them free of the older mans body, eyeing the bloody streaks that mar the smooth white skin. "Unharmed," he notes while clinically turning Harkin around and sighing heavily at the sight of Harkin's buttocks which are covered in gouges and deep, deep cuts, some of which are days old. "Harkin," he breathes, tears springing to his eyes, "what have they done to you?"

"What they will never do to you or the others," Harkin states calmly, bracing his hands on the stage as Finnick digs the saline soaked cloth into each furrow, reopening the wounds painfully, but also cleaning them and preventing infection. "You know the burden we bear, Finn Finicky," the nickname, childish to the extreme, has Finnick smiling broadly and leaning his forehead against Harkin's back long enough to draw some measure of comfort from him. Harkin smiles, his eyes unfocused as he stares forwards, wincing as Finnick returns to cleaning his wounds, and grits his teeth so as not to scream.

"It's not fair," Finnick grumbles bitterly, smoothing the thick creme along the pale expanse of Harkin's back and rear end, smirking in slight amusement as the older man's muscles bunch and ripple at the ticklish feeling this inspires. Harkin is a bundle of contradictions; seen to be the toughest and meanest of the Victor's, he's equally the most childlike and protective of those he considers family. A family that stretches to anyone who had been his student or mentor, of which, is most of the Victor's.

Harkin turns once Finnick has finished bandaging him up and places his hands on the sea-green eyes man, smiling gently. "No," he agrees sadly, "it's not fair; but we will weather the storm and come out stronger still."

Finnick rolls his eyes in reply, feeling like he was the petulant teenager once more under the firm tutelage of his emerald eyed Mentor, who cut him little, if any, flack. "Yeah, whatever," Finnick grins, brightly and genuinely. Not the grin that he dispenses like candy during the Capitol dances and parades, but a smile that he'd worn as a baby in his mother arms. "Whatever you say, Hark."

Harkin barks a short laugh, rolling his shoulders to test their mobility, safe or not in the Training Centre, he still feels horribly exposed when he's unable to wild any kind of weapon. Had the bandages restricted his movement, it could have seriously messed him up in ways that only a Victor could understand.

"Come on Finn Finicky, let's go drink Mitchy under the table," Harkin grins, Finnick rolls his eyes and both men pause long enough in their leaving to grab clean white cotton shirts and pants and change from their blood stained attire from before.

Behind them in the Archery Range, a girl, bow and arrows lying forgotten at her feet, watches them leave with enormous grey eyes and compassion, horror and sorrow stamped across her face. Katniss stares at the spot where Finnick Odair had mopped a buckets worth of blood from Harkin Black's torn to ribbons back. Both men acting quite unlike what she has expected or heard about. Somehow, she suspects that being a Victor means a lot more than survival in the Games, but what this might mean for her is unknown.

What she does know now, is that she's not so sure she _wants_ to win anymore…

...

...

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN:**

Just briefly, I will endeavour to update as often as possible, but considering the lead up to the Holidays and the various commitments there on, I cannot guarantee to finish this fic in the short period of time that I did '_The Hungry Beas_t'.

That said, most of these chapters are 'hot off the press' so to speak, and thus will contain mistakes and discrepancies. Forgive me and please let me know,

Kind regards,

Sar'Kalu


	5. Chapter 5

**[District One Mentor Sleeping Quarters, Tribute Centre, Capitol City; 74 A.D.D]**

_He's in a house with white panelled walls and photographs lining the hallway. Faces smile out at him, red hair, blue eyes, brown eyes, green eyes, dark hair, brown hair, a kaleidoscope of coloured memories that bled to grey before his very eyes…_

_Laughter comes from a room down the hall, the sound of crackling recoded voices and stages music draws him in. He moves slowly, hand trailing beneath the photographs, fingers jumping over each indentation. The door is a dark midnight blue… no, it's red, blood red and it's bleeding across the floor… now it's green, leaves and flowers growing over it like there is a forest hidden within…_

_He presses a hand against the heavy wood, warm and smooth like flesh beneath the palm of his hand, it swings open, bleached white like bones in the sun, a family sit on a couch, laughing and joking as they watch a movie. He knows them, he knows their colours, their faces. He knows them…_

_The eldest turns, he has laughing brown eyes and messy dark brown hair, his mothers son, "Dad!" He grins, "come in! We're watching this muggle TV show. It's really weird!"_

_He steps inside, his voice moving before he can think that he's not a father, because here, here he is, here he has always been. "James," he acknowledges the boy, his mouth moving into a wooden smile. He wonders who the boy truly is, because there are days when he doesn't believe that James is his son…_

_"__Are you okay, Dad?" A sweet voice that reminds him of lilies in spring, their white throated faces upturned and waving in the breeze, spreading their beautiful scent all around. He turns, his daughter with her beautiful long red hair and grey eyes… no, not grey, never grey. He trembles, staring at her, her eyes were a deep rich brown, not grey…_

_Her hair is turning black, the colour leeching from the ends and staining her shoulders, her face turning white, freckles standing out like bruises against her skin. He shouts, screaming in horror, not his girl, not his baby girl!_

_Lily is standing before him now, smiling and cocking her head to the side and her throat has been slit from ear to ear like a macabre grin and he's backing up, terrified of her and what she might represent only she's following him, still smiling and reaching out and her hand touches his chest…_

He wakes with a shout, panting heavily, his blankets pooling about his waist. He sighs heavily, relaxing himself, and rakes a hand through his hair. He rolls to his feet, knowing that there will be no peace, no sleep for him tonight. Harkin wishes, somedays, that his training before the arena had allowed him to grieve and feel guilt like the rest of the Victors clearly do, even Gloss and Cashmere weep for the children they'd been forced to kill. But he doesn't. His indoctrination as the child of a Victor had been explicit and extensive. There were no tears for the children he'd murdered because he didn't know how.

Johanna is in the communal eating area for the Mentors, a spit fiery woman with a tongue like acid and eyes that cut like diamonds. She was also the one Victor in the last fifteen years who he hasn't taught personally in his trade of passion and persuasion. Dressed as she is, in a white cotton tee and the shortest shorts you'd ever seen, you wouldn't know that she'd escaped Snow's clutches and his forced prostitution. She hasn't of course, she's just traded prostitution for the deaths of her family, the one warning for them all, now reduced to a bitter, sarcastic and caustic woman with eyes like agates.

It's probably the reason he's so fond of her.

Johanna turns, her dark eyes meeting his own emerald and smirks darkly, "hello Black," she murmurs, her voice throaty and sexualised as she rolls her hips in a provocative manner, reminding him that Johanna was Finnick's first student who now wastes his lessons on fucking whoever she desires. Unlike the other Victors, Johanna has a semblance of freedom that she uses to flip off Snow with. With Johanna, Snow had blundered, something he has since learned from and now ensures they all suffer for.

"Johanna," Harkin sighs, sliding past her, ignoring the way her hand brushes against his hip in blatant temptation, and pours himself a coffee, remembering a time when he'd hated the beverage, preferring something he had never once tasted. Tea was extinct, had been since the dark days, yet he knew the aroma, the taste and the soothing calm he'd always felt when drinking it. "What are you doing up so late?"

Johanna winces slightly before steeling herself and shrugging, "nothing much."

"Nightmares," he fills in dully, knowing that nightmares, flashbacks and traumatic memories haunt them all. Well, all bar him. "About the Games?"

"Worse," she answers, all pretence of being fine dropping from her features and she stares at him with wounded eyes. Harkin barely retains the heavy sigh he feels like expressing, wondering when he'd become their protector, their father. That had once been a job shared between Woof and Mags.

He barks a bitter laugh, oh but that's right. Mags had suffered from a stroke not three months ago, no wonder Finnick was so concerned and constantly plastering himself to Harkin's side, and Woof had brained himself years ago when a piece of machinery had collapsed on him as he'd tried to save his granddaughter or something similar. Harkin sighs and does his 'duty', wrapping Johanna in a tight hug and feeling the stunned woman stiffen in shock.

"Harkin, what are you doing?" She asks, bewildered.

Harkin sighs for a third time and releases her, "I might be a bastard to the Tributes," he admits drolly to her amusement, "but I do care about all of the Victors."

"Good to know," Johanna snips sarcastically, rolling her eyes, regaining her equilibrium. "Try not to loose that bad boy armour, Harkin, we need you to terrify the Tributes tomorrow."

Harkin snorts in amusement, "can't have me going soft," he agrees bitterly, setting his coffee cup down with a sharp thud. This is who he is, the boogyman, the frightener, the warner; a man who scares even his nearest and dearest. His mask to the world is more his face than his true self ever is.

Johanna shrugs at him, neither apologetic or concerned by his harsh laughter, unnerved by his presence and his out of character behaviour, she slips from the room like a ghost. The after image of her presence lingering in the room, haunting him. He snarls and throws the fine bone china mug against the wall, scattering the fragments across the room and he ignores Johanna's reappearance, axe in hand, as he flees the room. She watches him go, confused and bemused.

…

…

He finds himself in the Training Room, the shadows casting monsters against the walls, their eyes and mouths hungry for him and Harkin wants, desperately, to flee once more. Instead he turns towards the area where the spears are kept when the sounds of creaking metal, the rasp of wood on string, and the dull thud of small objects striking wood reach his ears; drawing him into the Archery Range where he notices the small figure of District Twelves female Tribute, Kitten.

Smirking, he leans agains the door jamb and watches her smoothly draw an arrow, knock it, draw back to her cheek and then release with such precision and practice that he knows that she's had years and _years_ of using a bow. Illegally, if he remembers the laws regarding Twelve correctly. How Snow would love to know that the Miners of Twelve are being rebellious and hoarding weapons under his Peacekeepers noses. Not that Snow will find out, of course. Unless, it happens to benefit him in some way. Which is unlikely.

Kitten is wearing a tightly fitted black singlet and black pants of fitted, stretchy material, emphasising her slim, bony build that speaks of too many nights spent hungry. Harkin allows his eyes to flutter shut in pain, no wonder Kitten was so tiny. She is malnourished and stunted in her growth, like the boy in his dreams. They are two peas in a pod, those two, he realises with the kind of surprise one feels when noticing one's best friends fancy each other… Although why he uses that as an explanation is beyond him. Memory of bushy brown hair and sky blue eyes swim before his eyes before fading swiftly once more.

Harkin shakes his head, dispelling the images and picks up a second bow and a holster of arrows that he hooks to his belt, rather than over his head and stands in the station next to Kitten and smirks when she turns in surprise. "Hello, Kitten," Harkin says, drawing an arrow from his holster at his hip and knocking it swiftly enough that he has the string against his ear and then the arrow whistling through the air to narrowly miss thudding in the bullseye. "Don't suppose you're willing to teach me to shoot a bow?"

Kitten is staring at him with a mixture of mistrust and something he's unwilling to label as pity or sadness. "Why are you here?" She asks suspiciously.

_Good_, he thinks, that will serve her well in the arena. "I was here to toss spears around and work out my frustrations, but then I saw the naughty little Kitten from Twelve and thought, 'hey, I bet she can teach me to use a bow'," Harkin smirks at her disbelieving expression and knows her to be too intelligent to be fooled by him.

"Liar," she tells him, and he wonders where the guarded Kitten from three nights previously was. Where was the girl with compassionate eyes and soft, gentle hands who had tried to do as Finnick had, heal him, to make him _better_. She's smiling now, an ironic, sardonic smile that crawls beneath his skin and claws at him and she shifts closer, grey eyes narrowed with thought. "You're curious, Harkin Black, you know things you shouldn't and are-" She stops, biting her lip and backs away, shrugging. "It doesn't matter I suppose," she finishes awkwardly.

"No-o," Harkin smirks coldly, denying her the ability to run, "no, I like this. What am I, Kitten?" He asks her, like he doesn't already know her opinion of him, swayed by Haymitch, the sarcastic Mentor from Twelve and Cinna, the rebel stylist, who's turning her into his light, his flame to kickstart the rebellion. "What can you possibly see in me that makes you so unwilling to offend?" He edges closer, staling her, one foot after the other until he's almost plastered against her back. "What do you know, Kitten?"

"I don't know," she admits edgily, "but I've heard enough to… guess."

Harkin backs away suddenly, the arrow in his hand cutting deeply into the palm of his hand. "You were here last night," it isn't a question and he's utterly furious at her. "You saw Finnick and I, but did you hear?" He drops the bow and arrows, launching himself at her, pinning her to the wall, forearm braced against her throat, ready to crush her windpipe. "What did you hear, Kitten? What secrets of ours do you know?"

She claws at his arm, struggling and furious, she draws blood but he barely flinches, uncaring of the pain that is barely there on his sliding scale of 'ow' to 'fucking hell'. "Sn-ow!" She chokes out and he backs off her enough to allow her to breath.

"Snow?" He asks coldly, prompting her on like he hasn't just attempted to kill her in his fear and rage.

"Snow," she gulps, trying to slide a hand beneath his arm to massage her throat. "Snow forces you and Finn-ick," she gasps as he increases pressure once more, his face black with fury. "To se-ell yourselves to-o Capi-tol…"

He steps backwards, freeing her, and she falls to her knees, hands about her throat, gasping for breath. "You little fool," he whispers, closing his eyes tightly. "I told you to not dig, to not look for answers!" He's more sad than angry now, and his heart feels like it's full of lead and aching fit to burst. "You silly. Little. Fool!"

She stands, furious, "I didn't want to know!" She's snarling like a leopard, he can almost imagine her ears being flattened back and her fur bristling with rage. "I don't want to know this! I don't even know if I want to win anymore! Because," she rasps, saddened, "I'm not even sure it is winning anymore!"

"You're killing children," he snaps, throwing an arm out behind him angrily. "What part of _any_ of this, should make you want to win? In what way do these Games make you _feel_ like you can possibly win?" He's enraged at the very idea, his eyes are burning into her wide, fearful ones and he knows that, somehow, she's considered this all before and already knows what he's on about and it takes the wind from his sails and he slumps. "This isn't about winning or losing, Katniss Everdeen," the use of her name has her straightening in shock, "this is about survival and how much you have to gain on the other side. If the answer is 'not much' or 'not enough', then you should perhaps consider that the consequences will be too much for you."

She's still huddled against the wall ten minutes later as he finishes hanging up their bows and arrows. He knows that he's left her truly thinking about the consequences and just what she wants should she live or die in that arena. As he leaves the training rooms, he misses the sea-green eyed man who slips inside to check on the poor unfortunate soul who drew Harkin's wroth.

Finnick stands in the Archery Range and stares at the young woman who has picked up a bow and arrows from the stand and is sending them, one by one, into the wooden targets. It's so rapid that he can barely follow the drawback and release rhythm that she has going on and as he steps closer, he realises that she's crying, tears streaming from her eyes and he knows that whatever Harkin has said has left a deep impact on her. And while he doesn't recognise her, he suspects that she's a Tribute and mourning her death already. Harkin has that effect on people

He knows this, intimately, because each year Harkin picks a favourite and uses his pull with the Capitol sheep to carry them through the games. Finnick had been his favourite once, as had Cashmere and Gloss, although he'd hardly needed help in garnering favour. The Capitol had been spellbound by his youthful good looks, calling him Poseidon, King of the Sea.

"Twelve," Finnick says hesitantly, stepping forwards carefully, recognising those sad grey eyes from the Tribute Reaping videos. The Girl on Fire who Volunteered for her sister, Primrose. She had been inspiring and that feeling doesn't subside as he watches her spin around and knock an arrow, aimed directly at his heart. "Easy, Girl on Fire," he breathes lowly, holding up his hands as if to a wild beast.

"Why do you all do that?" She whispers, relaxing her bow and letting her arrow fall to the side, the tip dragging towards the ground.

Finnick cocks his head to the side, curious, taking in her wide grey eyes that look so serious, so pained and wonders what she means. "What are you on about, Fire Girl?"

"That right there," she says, barely heard. "Why do you, Harkin and Haymitch not use my name?"

Finnick smiles bitterly, _Harkin_. So this was his favourite this year, and he can see why. She is beautiful with her steel grey eyes that remind him of the blade of his trident, hair darker than night and pale skin that stretches across her bones too tight. She's clearly known hunger, she's known pain and she can fight. No wonder why he likes her. He nods silently to himself and decides that this time, as always, he will bow to Harkin's greater understanding of Panem and throw his weight behind this Girl on Fire.

"Because we cannot know who will win," he says despite knowing that it's a lie. Even the _air_ in the arena is controllable, allowing a person to _slow_ blades as they fly through the air, create _resistance_ to slow the Tributes down and create a _lack_ in which to suffocate the Tributes. "Would you have us grow attached to the people who we know will die, if not for certain, in the arena?"

She's wide eyed at the thought and then, with slow deliberateness of one who is pained by the very thought, she closes them, pressing the lids together and thinning her lips. "I see," she murmurs and he can see that she does and it pains him to think that this bright sixteen year old girl could die so vey soon. He steps closer, like she is a magnet and he a lodestone, and then halts, fearful of what this could mean. She smiles tightly as she hangs up her bow and arrows, sliding passed him and making her way to the door, "you know," she says pausing in the doorway and looking back at him hesitantly. "What they say about you…" she pauses, licking her lips. "What they say about you is _wrong_."

Finnick frowns, confused. "What they say about me?" He wonders. There are many rumours and accusations about and of him, but which ones could the Girl on Fire mean? Not even he can guess, there are simply too many to chose from.

"About your character," she admits, shrugging lightly. "This isn't the first sleepless night I've had in this room." She turns once more and slips from the training rooms, leaving him to stare after her in confusion.

Shaking his head, Finnick exits the range and then stops, frozen, at the sight of the dais on which sword fights happen. There, last night, he had mopped Harkin free of blood with his silk shirt and bound his wounds with bandages from the medic packs. She had seen. Finnick closes his eyes tightly, she had seen and undoubtably heard everything. She knows what is expected after the Games and Finnick wonders if that will have any effect on her performance in the arena.

And to think he had come down here seeking for Harkin as he had the night before at the behest of Johanna who didn't know what to make of the older mans behaviour. Finnick felt like laughing, even though he didn't know what was so funny.

God, he misses home.

...

...


	6. Chapter 6

**[Training Rooms, Tribute Centre, Capitol City; 74 A.D.D]**

Brutus was waiting for him, his Tributes standing not three steps behind him as Harkin stalks into the Training Rooms with fire in his eyes. It was nearly eleven in the morning and he was beyond furious at Johanna and Finnick for daring to meddle in his affairs. He casts a dark look at them both as they slunk into the rooms behind him, making their way to their Mentoring partners who both raised their eyes in bemusement at them. Serves them right, he grumbles to himself, pausing long enough to scan the room carefully, smirking at the judge who was bouncing on the tips of his toes nervously.

Brutus is well named, he is twice as wide against as Harkin and almost a full head taller with arms like tree trunks. He has a powerful presence and is forever trying to beat the dark haired man at their favoured weapon: spears. Harkin picks up a long leaf bladed spear, admiring as he always does the patterned blade that glimmers in the light beautifully. He flicks his gaze up and smirks at Brutus, meeting the taller man on the dais.

Unlike his previous trips to the Training Rooms, Harkin is feeling quite relaxed as he stands there before the gathering of Tributes and Mentors, willing to reinforce his reputation as the most dangerous of Victors, thus keeping them all safe from Dahlia and her ilk. Brutus crouches, one hand flat on the ground and grins up at Harkin, who sets one foot behind the other in a triangular stance, his leaf-blade spear pointed towards Brutus' head. The referee steps up and smirks, this was a job that only the best of citizens can score, watching the extremely well trained Victors spar against each other and ensuring that they don't rip up Snow's goods.

"This match will be timed for ten minutes," the referee explains in a ringing voice, drawing the gazes of the Game makers in the booth above their heads. Harkin smirks at Brutus, egging the furious brute on. "This is a blood match, first to draw, wins."

Brutus is now grinning and Harkin knows it's because Brutus has longed to be the one to draw blood first, however, Harkin doesn't want this, never has, but he has a reputation to uphold and so he turns his head, eyes never really leaving Brutus and interrupts the self important referee's monologue. "A wager, Two," he grins.

Brutus perks up, interested. "For what?"

"Whoever wins takes point," Harkin smirks, knowing that Snow will _never_ allow him to step down as 'leader'. His blood is too sought after, but it should be fun to watch Brutus tell the fat-lipped bastard nonetheless.

"I'll bleed you first, Black," Brutus vows.

Harkin smirks, "perhaps," he agrees, amused. "But when I bleed you, you won't walk for a week."

The whistle is blown, the referee having missed the exchange, quite unlike the Tributes from One and Two who are watching the grudge match with appreciative eyes. This is what the career districts are bred for. Fighting and brawling. Their lives are _drenched_ in blood and gore. It is who they are.

Brutus whips his sickle bladed spear upwards, trying to gore Harkin with its tip and Harkin spins backwards, swinging his spear wide and narrowly missing Brutus' cheek as the man from Two slides backwards, falling to his left knee. Harkin then snaps the spear back around, the blade whistling in the air, only to have the haft collide with Brutus' own with a 'clack'. The two men pause, grinning at each other, this has been nothing more than a test of reflexes and strength, now, it was time for the games to begin.

Brutus lets loose a brutal cry, bringing his leg up and slamming the heel of his foot into Harkin's chest, sending the dark haired man stumbling backwards. Harkin grunts from the collision, staggering back, his eyes, which had fallen closed, snapped open and he lunges forwards, the tip of his spear trembling from the force of his jab.

Brutus sways to the side, the haft of his spear knocking Harkin's to the side, leaving the man from One's side open, which Brutus takes immediate advantage of. Harkin grunts again as his side was kicked and his spear drops to the floor, rolling from the dais as he clutched his abdomen and staggering to the side.

Brutus senses weakness and went for the kill, snapping his spear sideways making Harkin leap backwards and land on the balls of his feet just on the edge of the dais. It was against the rules to step down and Harkin would have to, in order to reach his spear once more. Brutus grins and lunges forwards once more with his spear. Harkin smirks in victory as his uses his arms upward momentum to increase his already impressive jump skywards, Brutus' spear travelling below him harmlessly and withdrawing just as painlessly.

Harkin falls and then lands on his hands in a plank, his muscles bunching in his shoulders and arms. Still smirking, Harkin dips his feet to his spear and grasps the haft between his feet just beneath the leaf-shaped blade, and as Brutus was still regathering his wits at the display Harkin was putting on, Harkin shoved his arms upright just as he brought his feet between his hands and flung himself upright, landing once more on the balls of his feet, spear in hand.

The entire manoeuvre takes him less than two minutes and has stunned Brutus enough that it takes very little effort for Harkin to swipe his blade sideways and narrowly miss cutting Brutus' face once more. The Mentor from Two is snarling in rage as he looses his head completely and storms Harkin, assuming the man is off balance still, only to have Harkin step to the side and belt him across the shoulders with his spear and send the older man tumbling from the dais.

"Harkin Black!" The referee cries gleefully, announcing the winner, uncaring that Harkin had defeated Brutus without once bleeding him.

Brutus lets out a furious roar and spins around with enough momentum to loose his spear at a frightening speed only to have Harkin sway to the side and have it miss him, the only damage done is a shallow cut from nose to ear along his cheekbone. Harkin snarls wrathfully and leaps from the dais and buries his spear deep into Brutus' gut.

"You bled me first," Harkin hisses furiously, "and now you do not walk for a week. You were warned, Brutus."

Harkin steps backwards allowing the Mentor from Two to fall from his arms, spear still buried blade deep in his belly. Rolling his shoulders as a release of his tension, Harkin then sweeps from the Training Rooms leaving the stunned Tributes staring after him while Lyme tries to hold Brutus' intestines in his heaving body. Johanna and Finnick change glances, utterly unaware that Katniss is watching them curiously, wondering what had driven the protective and normally calm Victor to such extremes.


	7. Chapter 7

**[Presidential Gardens, Presidential Palace, Capitol City; 74 A.D.D]**

Harkin stands at the base of the curving stairs linked with the every delightful Dahlia VinVivi, she's acting as though she doesn't spend every couple of days flaying the skin from his back, adding to his collection of silvery scars that not even the best medical surgeons can remove via debridement. They are dressed in their finest tonight as it is the day of the interviews and a large vidscreen will be erected later on so that the gathered masses can place bets and enjoy the ever increasingly frantic preparations of the 74th Hunger Games. Harkin is waring his customary black suit with faint silver trimming, a midnight blue shirt that shimmers dully in the bright lights of the party adds to his mystical air. Dahlia, unlike her Capitol compatriots, is fairly reserved, choosing a simple blood red dress that highlights her scarlet hair and brilliant blue eyes. Together they looks striking and draw many an admiring eye.

Dahlia draws him off the stairs and directs him through the muddled masses, acting as though the collision of light, colour and sound isn't disconcerting her as she once admitted to him a very long time a go. During one of her more… tame hirings; back when they were both much younger than they are now. She smiles like a shark as she greets those lesser than herself and smiles almost appreciatively when those higher than her deign to meet her icy gaze, as though she doesn't freak them out and make them want to flee. After all, there are rumours about Dahlia that no one pays heed to but everyone warily keeps in mind. Particularly when she smiles like that.

They run across Finnick entertaining a young girl with almost white blonde hair and dark brown eyes wearing a dress that looks like she'd ransacked a library for inspiration on mermaids, their tongues are duelling disgustingly, reminding Harkin of worms copulating in slime. Dahlia titters in amusement, casting a fierce eye at Harkin, who is beyond nauseous at the sight of his protégé acting like a common whore. Even if that is all Finnick is to these people. Dahlia sees his discomfort and is pleased, Harkin worries about what that could mean.

The Capitol anthem draws their eyes towards the huge projector screens that occupy every possible space, the white peacekeepers at their bases stern and silent, marked by black visors. Harkin laughs and cheers as his Districts volunteers are called forwards and interrogated; and despite his outward appearance of pride and pleasure, he internally sneers at Marvel's whoops of delight and Glimmer's sickly sweet voice that reminds him far too much of Effie Snow, his District Partner who he had to kill in order to get were he is today. He should have died from that lunge Effie made with her swords, instead the tip had stuck his sternum and skated to the side, slicing him from chest to groin. She had bled out moments before he. Harkin knows that he survived on pure dumb luck, much like he knows Katniss Everdeen will, because the both of them are two peas in a pod.

Harkin is constantly called upon as the senior District Winner to give his 'expert' opinion, granting each of the fluttering Capitolites an 'insiders' view on the competition and allowing the various bookies, identifiable by their red bow ties and black hair, to edit their odds on each of the Tributes, calling out the changes in their high pitched excitable voices. Finnick watches him, curled up around his latest client, and smirks as he gives each Tribute a scathing review. Dahlia, who has a hundred credits riding on Marvel and Glimmer, is forced to retract her bet as Harkin all but slams the duo, citing overweening arrogance and pointing the stunned audience towards District Two's Cato Lance, District Eleven's Thresh MacChine, and District Five's Finch Russet.

The crowd mingles as they discuss the interviews, underwhelmed by District's Ten and Eleven, not seeing Thresh as the powerful player that Harkin knows he is and dismissing Rue for the bloodstain that she will eventually be post-bloodbath. They are still ignoring the Vidscreen's while Dahlia watches him, curious about his reaction to the 'Girl on Fire'. Sure enough, Harkin smirks, his eyes gleaming as he meets his most loathed clients gaze, she steps backwards, reminded of his nature and barely curbed behaviour before realising that he's practically grinning.

"She will win," he states surely, confident in his assessment.

Dahlia stares at the tiny woman on screen who is so frightened of the crowd and Caesar that she's barely breathing. "Her?" She says skeptically.

"You've not seen her shoot a bow," Harkin shrugs.

Finnick edges closer, depriving his client of his warm body for a moment as he is drawn into Harkin and Dahlia's conversation. "None of us have," he lies, unwilling to admit his nightly visits to the Tribute Centre Training Rooms to watch the fiery girls nocturnal training. "She avoided all weapons training."

Harkin smirks wider, crueller, unnerving Finnick and Dahlia both while Finnick's client squeaks a quick excuse and darts over to the nearest refreshment table. "Not at night she doesn't," Harkin says slyly. "Cheeky little kitten doesn't obey the rules," he adds, rolling his eyes in mock sadness, his words drawing Dahlia's appreciative stare to Katniss who is once more burning up on stage, fire licking at her arms and legs as she spins, spins, spins…

"Truly?" Dahlia muses, "I thought the training rooms were locked each night."

"Of course not," Finnick answers without thinking. "We mentors like to keep sharp."

"All bar Haymitch Abernathy," Harkin dismissed in slight boredom. "Give the girl a bow," he says, returning to the topic at hand. "And she will win; she's certainly ruthless enough."

"Is she now," Dahlia considers the girl as she leaves the stage and the male Tribute takes her place. She remains silent as Peeta speaks of showers and the differences between Twelve and the Capitol.

Harkin raises an eyebrow at the boy, reluctantly impressed with his easy and cheerful demeanour. "That will win him support," Harkin admits, bemused.

Finnick snorts and rolls his eyes, not speaking even though he wishes to; because this was exactly what Harkin had done twelve years ago. Caesar had been much younger then and had been one of Harkin's first clients only to discover that the charming veneer was skin deep and that cruelty and malice ran beneath his skin like the rivers of blood that he had bathed in as a Tribute. Shortly after Caesar, Snow had begun to sell Harkin to the highest and the most exclusive bidder; Snow profits enormously off Dahlia's sick tendencies, Finnick knows, however he also wonders how the woman is able to pretend to be so kind and cheerful, obeying Harkin's every whim as if she doesn't paint her walls scarlet every night.

Harkin is tense beside him, his eyes wide with shock as he stares at the boy on screen and Finnick wonders what he's missed. Dahlia is delighted, laughing cruelly at the sadness being expressed by the audience and Caesar as the boy explains that the love of his life is in the Games with him. All around them the innocent and naive Capitolite's are already exclaiming about the unfairness and cruelty of the world surrounding the 'Star Crossed Lovers of District Twelve'. Finnick can see Harkin biting the inside of his cheek, like he's trying not to laugh and even Finnick can guess at Katniss Everdeen's reaction to that little bombshell.

"Well," Dahlia hums lightly, turning blue eyes onto her Victor escort, smirking. "That was unexpected."

"Quite," he agrees as if bored but both Dahlia and Finnick can see his eyes sparkling with cruel humour and Finnick shivers with distaste at the sight while Dahlia revels in it. She will have fun 'taming' him tonight. "Fire Girl will be pissed to hell," he admits to Dahlia's ever increasing amusement.

"It certainly changes the Games," she murmurs, surprising Finnick with her perspicacity. She turns to Harkin, subtly evaluating him, "you think she will win?"

"Now?" Harkin considers, "now, definitely."

"Why?" She asks, her eyes narrowed.

"Because he will not let her die," Harkin points out, indicating the way the boy's eyes are fevered with determination on the playback. "He will die first."

"Interesting," Dahlia admits, looping his arm with hers and drawing him away from the golden haired Victor who watches the screen with a bit too much intensity. "Come my love," she coos, "we must circle before our meeting with the President."

Harkin smiles tightly, accepting her controlling him, passively allowing himself to steered away from the one person whom he didn't loathe here. Dahlia, guessing at his silent disgust and furious desire to rebel, smirks victoriously and digs her nails into his arm, sending a slight flinch travelling through her arm as he reacts predictably. He hates her, she knows, but she is too addicted to the power that standing over him and hurting him gives her, and for that she will do anything. Above them, standing on the balcony, Snow watches and waits, considering their gradual, spiralling approach as he wonders why Harkin has yet to act on his orders and kill the bitch already; perhaps her information well has yet to run dry…

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><p><strong><span>AN:**

Thank you all, I have been receiving the most wonderful reviews and feedback, I truly appreciate it all. Thank you.

Kind regards,

Sar'Kalu


	8. Chapter 8

**[Presidential Office, Presidential Palace, Capitol City; 74 A.D.D]**

President Snow is seated behind his desk, waiting for him, as a red robed Avox leads him through the door and motions him forwards. Snow, much like his name, is white and pale. Pale blue eyes, white hair, white suit, pale cream shirt, white roses all clustered together in a room filled with pale light and boxed in with white walls and covered in pale cream carpets with pale curtains hanging translucent before white washed windows. The scent of white roses and fresh spilled blood hangs before him like a miasma and it's all he can do to not retch and heave, and despite his determination, his face pales to whey and he sways, his knees lacking so he does not fall.

"Welcome," Snow greets him, subtly pleased by his Victor's reaction. Harkin, not Finnick as many believed, was his favourite and the show of disgust and weakness before his eyes is one of the few reasons he drags the younger man before him. To show Harkin Black, the most dangerous of Victors, that he, not Harkin, was the power here. That Harkin was his to do as he pleased. His to make sick with the sweet scent of roses and blood. His to control and his to sell. "Please," Snow directs cooly, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his lips. "Sit."

Harkin does, trembling as he takes his place before the cruel man behind the desk of rich, warm brown wood. A stark contrast to the rest of the room and an object that deliberately draws the eye to its presence. A reminder of Snow and his power. A reminder of Snow and his reach. A reminder of Snow more effective than any other, whether the man himself or his signature roses. Harkin feels his stomach churn and swoop as he passes a cream envelope over to Snow, his green eyes terrified as he awaits verdict.

Snow reads the note concealed within with narrowed but pleased eyes and then gently lays the fragile paper on his desk. He raises his head and meets Harkin's gaze, thoughts churning beneath his pale blue eyes that slowly darken as rage overtakes his good sense. "Have you read this?" Snow asks cooly, his voice rife with fury and danger and Harkin stills in his chair.

"No," Harkin denies, lying smoothly.

Snow inclines his head and refolds the paper carefully, ever movement precise and controlled. "It would appear that Miss. VinVivi needs to disappear," Snow concedes reluctantly. "She has contact with the resistance movements in the outlying districts."

Harkin could fill that in with ease. Outlying districts, Seven, Eight, Ten, and Three. Districts not directly under Capitol control, no matter how hard the Peacekeepers squeeze and Snow watches. Districts that are getting more and more bitter at there lot. Districts that buck the system in minor ways. Districts that actually mean something to the Capitol, that bring in revenue that the Capitol cannot do without. Harkin knows that should these Districts rebel, that the Capitol will suffer from a lack of food, of building materials, of clothing and of the one thing that entertains the Capitol sheeple: technology.

"What would you have me do?" Harkin asks Snow, who leans back with an unpleasant smile stretching his fat, fat lips.

"Currently?" He muses deliberately, keeping Harkin on tenterhooks, "nothing," he says slyly. "Eventually, however, perhaps she can accidentally tumble from a great height. Such a pity," he adds in a disgusting mockery of true sympathy. "I'm sure that you will be pleased to rid yourself of her strangle hold."

Harkin understands immediately, he is to wait until she buys him again and is to ensure that Dahlia stands on the balcony, as they do every time he attends her, and is to watch her fall and die. He nods, unwilling to gainsay Snow in his own office despite his mind furiously whirring away and searching for a way to save her. He might hate Dahlia but he did not wish her dead, she was still far too useful to him.

"Understood, Mr. President," Harkin agrees easily, his façade brittle but unwavering.

Snow smiles coldly, pleased with Harkin's subservience. "Good boy," Snow then shuffles his papers around and withdraws a cream slip smelling of roses, holding it out for Harkin to take. "You have work to do, my dear, so off you go."

Harkin smiles stiffly and takes the paper, reading the name on it with dismay. "Understood," he whispered, eyes fluttering closed but accepting his lot in life. Aquavirius Snow, the societally-disgraced son of Coriolanus Snow and the leader of the Peace Keepers of Panem. "I shall take my leave, Mr. President, thank you for your time."

Snow smirked cruelly as Harkin Black slunk from his office looking defeated and heart stricken. It would not do for the young Victor to forget his place when it came to his loyalty and dedication to Panem, the Capitol and to Coriolanus Snow himself. Aquavirius Snow would ensure that Harkin would bleed for every little perceived sin. There was a reason why he'd had to bar his son from High Society functions and it wasn't his manners…

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	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note:

**WARNING!** Extreme violence and explicit sexual language. **WARNING!**

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**[General of the Peace Keeper's Residence, Capitol City Outskirts; 74 A.D.D]**

The bed is covered in crushed red velvet that slides unpleasantly beneath his skin and Aquavirius is leaning over him still fully dressed and breathing fetid air across his bare neck and face while his hands grip Harkin's shoulders as he smiles cruelly down at him, eyes alight with dark fervour. Aquavirius isn't allowed to buy Harkin often, his tendency towards extreme violence is beyond even Snow's pale, _but when he is…_ Harkin shudders at the thought.

Warm hands smooth over Harkin's bare skin, making his muscles twitch and writhe beneath his smooth, unharmed flesh. He is tied to the headboard with cruelly tight knots, the blood already struggling to reach his extremities and the rope digs into soft skin with ease, hardened as it has been by heat and overuse. Aquavirius hooks long fingers into Harkin's waistband and draws the pants down the Victor's legs harshly, baring him to his greedy blue eyes.

"So beautiful," Aquavirius croons, rubbing his nose along the cleft between hip and thigh, his tongue darting out to swipe along Harkin's belly, leaving a wet stripe in its wake.

Then Aquavirius starts stroking the Victor's body and Harkin shudders at every firm, warm touch. Hating how Aquavirius Snow enjoyed the build up. How Aquavirius Snow would bring him to the very edge of release before starting with the knives. Mixing it so that Harkin is unable to tell pleasure from pain but equally unable to find release and utterly at Aquavirius' mercy.

Harkin is hard and twitching before too long; Aquavirius is hyper-intelligent and he knows Harkin's body. Knows Harkin's preferences. Knows how to bring the dark haired Victor to a gasping quivering mess in the middle of his crushed velvet bedding. Aquavirius smiles darkly and leans over Harkin's body and bite down around Harkin's left nipple, breaking through the skin with ease. His teeth are sharpened like Enobaria West's, but unlike the Victor from Two, Aquavirius regularly uses his teeth for more than eating Capitol steaks.

Aquavirius has found inspiration in the Hunger Games, he watches them religiously, like they are his own personal gospel. He reenacts them with pleasure. Beating his sexual parters with bricks, stabbing them with swords, shooting them with arrows and entrapping them with nets and snares. For him, the Hunger Games embodies perfection and he shares that perfection with those he shares his bed.

Harkin grunts in pain, Aquavirius' hands torn between snatching at his penis and balls, and rubbing themselves through Harkin's red, red blood that paints the Victor's skin so beautifully. Aquavirius laps at the wound, using his sharpened nails to rake long red lines down Harkin's thighs, hips and buttocks, one hand slipping between the Victor's legs and crooking a nail along the underside of Harkin's penis and slowly slicing a thin line alongside the vein there.

Harkin is unable to help the scream this time, it rings out like pain personified even as he tries to cover himself but Aquavirius refuses, using his own legs to pin Harkin's to either side, the force tearing one of his groin muscles, causing blood to pool brilliantly purple beneath his skin. Aquavirius laughs coldly before swooping down and swallowing Harkin from tip to base, drinking in the rich, raw, red blood that gushes from the long cut, his tongue probing between the folds of skin, preventing any abilities of clotting.

Harkin is arching his back with his legs splayed wide open and hands helplessly tied above his head and Aquavirius' knees pressing him wider, disregarding the way that Harkin's thigh muscles tremble and shake and the way his chest heaves. Aquavirius skates a thick, sharp nail beneath Harkin's testicles and wriggles it sharply, cutting the tender skin of his perineum and catching at the edge of his rectal muscles. The Victor shouts, his eyes squeezed shut, chest panting heavily and sweat slicked, stinging the tiny cuts that cover his torso from Aquavirius' fingers that trail and trace over every muscle possessively.

"Come on Harkin," Aquavirius breaths as he rises above Harkin and stares down at the gasping Victor, the scent of fresh blood mixing with the horrid scent of rotting meat and washing over Harkin's face, making his stomach turn and writhe. "Scream for me, gorgeous!" Aquavirius grins viciously and inserts a long finger tipped with a sharp nail into Harkin's rectum and crooks its slim length against Harkin's prostate.

Harkin screams, torn between explosive pleasure and extreme pain as his prostate is clawed raw by the man above him. Aquavirius bares his teeth in victorious glee and strips his pants and shirt from his body in a swift, smooth movement and repositions himself above the squirming Victor. Harkin's legs are tugged wider by Aquavirius' impatient hands and the long thick penis of the Peace Keeper General breaches Harkin without any warning. Aquavirius groans in delight, Harkin's blood lubricating the breach smoothly and he lunges forwards in a desperate thrust, sinking his teeth into the trapezius muscle between Harkin's neck and shoulder, sheering through the tough flesh with ease and delighting at the feeling of blood staining their bare chests.

Aquavirius grunts as he picks up his pace, hands clawing at Harkin's chest, back and sides, filleting the younger man with his long, sharp nails and turning the Victor's skin to ribbons of flesh and blood. Aquavirius leans back, grinning at the sight of the bloodied Victor beneath him, not particularly interested in fucking him dry as the Victor arches beneath him once more, howling in pain. He grabs Harkin's forearms, their lower halves still joined with him thrusting away, and digs his long nails into the soft skin of Harkin's wrists and drags them down viciously towards Harkin's elbows.

Harkin's screaming so loudly that his voice is going hoarse, his mind and body awash with pain and his skin twitching from every cut, slice and tear that Aquavirius gifts him. His shoulders are bitten to a pulpy mess and his arms are wrenched from their sockets when Aquavirius spins him over, biting and marking his thighs, buttocks and lower back. The General of the Peace Keepers follows every dip, curve and swoop of Harkin's well sculpted back with his sharpened nails, cutting thin slices of skin from his back and front, filleting his penis and tracing his balls with his tongue and then his teeth, leaving tiny furrows in his sack and perineum. And all the while Aquavirius bathes in his blood and delights in his pain, pressing mocking kisses to his back, his shoulders, his neck, his thighs, his arms but never, not once, does he kiss his lips of face…

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><p><span>AN:

Review to tell me what you think.

Kind regards,

Sar'Kalu


	10. Chapter 10

**[The Lobby, Tribute Centre, Capitol City; 74 A.D.D]**

Aquavirius smirks as he directs his men to drag the limp form of Harkin Black from his car to the lobby of the Tribute Centre. The Victor was no longer bleeding and had ben wrapped in pristine white bandages; no one could say that Aquavirius Snow didn't care for his lovers. With a sharp whirl, Aquavirius leads the trio of his most loyal soldiers back to his car and without a care in the world, directs his driver to the outskirts of Panem where he is responsible for patrolling the chain-link fences there and ensuring that no one got in or out.

Harkin stirs with a pained groan and with considerable fortitude, manages to heave himself to his feet. The lobby is glaring with bright lights and is empty of any witnesses, which Harkin is incredibly thankful for. He staggers over to the elevators, barely managing to keep to his feet and gritting his teeth with ever step. He needs someone to help him tonight and he has no desire to go to Raizen, who always asks for his own form of payment. Usually sex.

It's not until he's reached level four that Harkin realises that he's immediately gravitated towards Finnick. However, to his increasing distress, Harkin is forced to admit that Finnick isn't in his rooms or in his Tributes rooms. Rooms which are suspiciously empty. Harkin tries to think where the other man is before considering the fact that, if the Hunger Games have started, then Finnick might be with several clients. It's not a notion that inspires pleasure in him.

Deciding to wait it out, Harkin lowers himself onto the low slung cream suede couch that looks like sculpted sand. The throw and pillows are all of a deep jade green and navy blue, and Harkin finds himself floating on a sea of dreams, the morphling in his system doing its job admirably. He lies there for an indeterminate period of time, drifting in and out of consciousness and not truly rousing himself until deep brown eyes swim before his face.

He blinks slowly, wondering why these eyes feel so damn familiar and he lifts a heavy hand to brush against the face the eyes are set in and he marvels at the softness of the faces' skin. "Brown," he observes deeply, his voice furry with sleep and pain, the morphling is slowly wearing off and he's beginning to come back to his usual demeanour.

"Harkin?" A voice speaks and he furrows his brow in confusion.

"You're not, Finny," he grumbles to the voice, pouting miserably. "Where's 'Innick?"

"Finnick?" The voice is sharp and concerned now, the brown eyes hazy and out of focus. Or maybe that's his eyes. "You're looking for Finnick, Harkin?" The voice asks and Harkin, managing to comprehend enough, nods like he has no bones in his neck, his head flopping about like a grounded fish. "Okay," the voice rasps, disturbed now. "Okay, let's get you to Finnick, Harkin."

Hands wrap themselves around his arms and he is pulled from the sandy couch, the pain from moving making his whine. "No-o," he moans, "no move!" Tears are welling in his eyes now and the voice is panicked as it reassures him. Part of him, buried very deeply, is horribly embarrassed by all of this but it's quick to subside as the voice and the hands drag him from Finnick's rooms and to the elevator.

Harkin clings to the shoulders of the voice and hands, tilting precariously as the elevator comes to a swift stop and he sways in the voice's arms, the hands gripping his shoulders tightly and compressing his wounds hidden beneath his bandages. He's sobbing now, quiet little puffs of air that can be mistake for panting because his throat, voice and ribs are so very sore. Aquavirius always preferred his lovers being able to feel him for days and he _always_ succeeded.

The voice and hands direct him towards a shiny door panelled in steel grey metallic paint and the hands do a weird shuffle, one sliding around his back and the other darting forwards to press the door open before slapping against his chest, preventing him from tipping forwards. Harkin groans as pain radiates from his chest and shoulders, his muscles feel wrenched and he's desperate for another hit of morphling and _please, God, can he please just sit for a while?_

The hands drag him into a room filled with people coloured gold, black and pink and Harkin blinks rapidly, trying to focus on them even as he tries to hold in whatever meagre food he's managed to eat in the past twenty four hours. The voice soothes him while the hands slide him onto the couch and the golden person shimmers before him like firelight. Harkin blinks slowly, moaning softly, his throat raw enough that the past hour has resulted in blood bubbling in his lungs, making his breath rattle and drag.

"Finnick!" The voice shrieks in his ear and Harkin winces, jerking his head away and making pain spike behind his eyes, he groans again. "Finnick, please, Finnick!"

A voice, deeper, smoother, kinder, rumbles from the other side of the room and sea green eyes appear above Harkin's line of sight and he smiles in pain. "Green, green like the sea," Harkin mumbles, his eyes sliding shut and his vision blackening at the corners. "It's just you and me, my love, on the deep, deep sea and we are so very free, free, it's just you and me on the deep blue sea…" His voice tails off in a slur and darkness washes over him and the sea-green eyes and deep voice are shouting at him but Harkin just smiles and slides beneath the deep blue sea…

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"Here, splash this on his face," voices slur and swim between his ears like fish and Harkin blinks heavily as he comes to, spluttering and gasping through a mouthful of cold water. "Finnick, I told you to splash him, not bloody drown him!"

Harkin struggles upright, one hand flailing for purchase, the other anchored beneath him, pushing him upright. A hand reaches out and snatches at his waving hand, pulling him upright while other hands grab his shoulders, making them burn and scream in pain. Harkin's eyes snap open and he stares into the stunned blue-green eyes of Finnick Odair, who stares back at him, a broad smile on his face.

"Harkin!" Finnick gasps, enveloping the older man in a tight, desperate hug. Harkin screams, arching beneath Finnick's weight and with brutal strength, shoves the Mentor from Four off his body, gasping heavily. Finnick stares at him, shocked, "Harkin, what…?"

Harkin's shaking, his very bones trembling so hard that it feels like they are rattling against each other as he pants and struggles for a measure of his usual equilibrium and gentle hands are tugging at his long-sleeved, high-necked shirt revealing the thick white bandages that wrap him from neck to wrist and ankle. Finnick's eyes are wet with tears and rage as he stares at the damage done to the bravest and cruelest of Victors. Harkin shrugs the hands away from him and struggles upright, making his way over to the nearest exit, his chest heaving against the tight trappings that encircle his damaged ribs and as he stumbles a body stinking of alcohol and bile is there, propping him up and another body appears on his other side.

"Off," Harkin finally manages, wheezing and gasping. "Off!" He tugs at his clothing, uncaring of the impropriety as a female voice gasps and another snorts. "Please, Finnick! Off, get them OFF!"

Finnick is there, suddenly and warmly, his gentle hands peeling back his shirt off his sore, sore shoulders and arms. Another set of hands, beset with tremors but no less kind and gentle, tug at his belt and Harkin twists his head as he leans against the second body to see Haymitch Abernathy staring resolutely at his feet, even as his worn hands sweep the length of his pants from his legs, revealing more thick white bandages below. Harkin's panting and trembling and he stares at both Finnick and Haymitch and silently pleading for them to continue.

"Please," he rasps, "get them off, please!" He's not looking forwards to what happens next, but he knows it has to be done. Haymitch's eyes darken in confusion while Finnick nods, slowly but surely and he begins to unwind the bandages.

If Haymitch's expression was pained before, it is nothing to what his eyes all but scream as Finnick unwinds the bandages from Harkin's torso. As each layer is pulled away, both Haymitch and the second body propping Harkin up wince as Finnick reveals layers that are steadily and increasingly reddened from a light, bright pink to a deep rich scarlet. Then grains of… something, fall from beneath the bandages and Finnick pauses long enough to roll a single, chunky grain between his fingers and he closes his eyes in horror.

"Salt," he speaks finally, his cheeks wet. Harkin turns as a choked sob echoes from where the two women stand and he feels stunned at seeing Johanna and Effie Trinket, the District Twelve escort, weeping thick tears as they stare at his ruined and bloody body. Harkin twists his head to meet the deep, dark gaze of Cinna, Twelves Stylist, who is working with Haymitch to keep Harkin suspended above Finnick, who is still unwrapping Harkin's broken body.

Harkin sighs heavily, shock numbing the pain as Finnick drags the last of the bandages from his torso and begins on the bandages encasing his groin and legs, his body lowered to the floor by both Haymitch and Cinna as they then turn to unwrap his arms as gently as they can. Effie and Johanna slip from the room before returning with deep, wide bowls filled with warm water and soft cloths that look like they had once been a fashion statement. Both women work side by side the men, mopping up the blood and salt from Harkin's many, many wounds as the dark haired Victor's eyes roll backwards and he sinks once more into darkness…

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	11. Chapter 11

**[District Twelve Quarters, Tribute Centre, Capitol City; 74 A.D.D]**

Harkin came to with a sudden gasp, rolling from the bed in one smooth movement and then standing up straight and tall, despite the absolute agony it inspired to do so. Beside the bed, Finnick was flailing his way into wakefulness, spinning around and his hands swinging around to grasp at the trident that wasn't beside him. Harkin stared uncomprehendingly at the man before him, hands outstretched as though he clung to a spear before coming to and realising that he wasn't under threat. Finnick blinked rapidly, swinging his head around, searching for that all elusive trident that was not and never had been beside him before turning to stare at Harkin in confusion.

"Harkin?" Finnick questions, confused.

Harkin nods sharply, scanning the room carefully, noting the many differences between this room and his own. "This is not One's rooms," he observes slowly.

"Harkin!" Finnick gasps, realisation striking him like a thunderbolt. "You shouldn't be upright!"

Harkin fends off his protégé's hands skilfully, slipping passed the younger man and out the door, his nose twitching as it led him into a dining room fully stocked with all kinds of breakfast foods. Ignoring his nakedness and his apparently bemused company, Harkin settled in a chair and heaped his plate full of food, bolting it down swiftly, one arm wrapped about it and his eyes darting around him like he was a wolf protecting its kill.

"Should you even be up yet?" Haymitch demands of the Victor from One while Effie is torn between scolding the dark haired Victor or appreciatively running her eyes over his tanned and toned body.

Harkin shrugs at the Victor from Twelve, not too fussed by their concern. "Recovery always leaves me starving and Finnick is the worlds worst mother hen," Harkin explains, tearing into a fresh loaf of bread, uncaring that there was another one, neatly sliced, beside it.

"Then maybe you should listen to me more," Finnick grumbles as he staggers into the room shirtless and cranky. "For a half-dead man you move stupidly quick."

"I killed a woman with half my intestines hanging out," Harkin rolls his eyes at the younger man. "Yesterday was nothing." He's blithe and unconcerned, acting as though it was nothing despite knowing just how close he came to death. He's grateful to all of the people around this table but has no way of knowing how he can thank them without looking and feeling weak.

"Yesterday?" Johanna snorts, rolling her eyes. "You passed out three days ago, Harkin. You've been lying, as though dead on that bed for three days! That," she snaps, enraged, "is not nothing!"

Harkin shrugs once more, snatching up another loaf of bread and tearing hunk after hunk off with his sharp, white teeth. He spreads soft cheese on one end and stuffs cold meats in his mouth with another hands, balancing his meal out with tomatoes, mushrooms and apples. No wonder he is so hungry, if he hasn't eaten in three days. He was no stranger to hunger but his body ran on a higher metabolism than most and the lack of food not only weakened his body but also endangered his life.

"How long has," Effie swallows, looking torn at the sight of the scabbed over wounds and scars that decorate most of his body. She tries again, "how long has this been going on, Harkin?" She waves at his body, her lips white and her eyes sorrowful and Cinna sneaks a hand into hers, comforting her gently.

"What age did I win my Games?" Harkin wonders almost idly, drawing confused looks from the non-Victors at the table while Finnick, Johanna and Haymitch all look murderous.

"You told me it was your first year too!" Finnick snarls, slamming his hands onto the table and towering over the dark haired Victor, staring into emerald eyes with his own sea green gaze.

Harkin raises an eyebrow, amused. "I lied," he states slowly and deliberately. "Obviously."

Johanna rises too, her eyes afire and her limbs trembling, "who-" she chokes. "Who are you protecting?" She hisses the question, her breath shaking with rage. "We can pull them out, protect them somehow, free you of this!"

"And leave who to take my place?" Harkin demands, standing and towering over the Mentors from Four and Seven, his eyes blazing with rage. "_You_? _Finnick_? Oh, _maybe_ Gloss or Cashmere?" Harkin voice is bitter, "you ask you I protect? You sure you _want_ the fucking answer, Johanna Mason?"

Johanna snarls back, "those idiots from One don't need protecting! They're Capitol _dogs_!" She's spitting with fury, eyes narrowed and hands gripping the edge of the table, fit to fly at him teeth bared.

"Cashmere and Gloss are the most vulnerable of all, Johanna!" Harkin cries, throwing an arm wide, pointing at the door. "You idiots," he spits wrathfully, "from the outer districts, so fucking _quick_ to judge! Do you know _why_ the kids from One and Two are called Careers? Do you?" Johanna is staring at him, confused and fearful as he circles the table, his nakedness not detracting at all from his wroth. "Cash and Gloss are _not_ Careers," his voice is hoarse and cruel as he speaks and Johanna flinches, making to refute his statement only for Harkin to cut across from her. "_I_ am a Career, the _child_ of a Victor, _the son of a Capitol Whore, sold by Snow himself_!"

His statement leaves the room aching for more, for an explanation that they can understand and comprehend. Harkin sighs heavily, sinking slightly in his tired rage and he shakes his head wearily and rakes a hand through his hair. Haymitch watches him, wondering if the man before him will shatter all of Johanna's furious delusions and open her eyes up to the real world around her, while Cinna finally understands what made Snow's dog seek him out and he runs concerned eyes over that bruised, batter yet still proud body that is naked and glorious.

"Careers are the children of Victor's," Harkin explains tiredly, sliding into a chair beside Finnick, who had restrained him from attacking Johanna and now watched him silently, understandingly, and more importantly, _compassionately_. "We are removed at birth and from the District, expected to Volunteer at an appropriate age.

"I was fifteen. Effie was seventeen." Harkin shrugs and continues, "we never know our parents, I suppose it's better like that, and most of us aren't wholly District One."

Harkin shoots a sly look at Johanna, who blanches in horror, "I'm certainly not," he adds coldly. "Dark hair is not a characteristic of my District, nor of any bar Twelve and no one from One would even deign to look at Victor's or residents of Districts Five through to Thirteen.

"At any rate," Harkin continues like he isn't explaining something so horrible that Johanna and Effie are crying while Cinna and Haymitch are digging deep grooves into the table with their knives as if the tables are Snow and the Game Makers. "Cashmere and Gloss aren't Careers, but their children will be. So far," Harkin adds almost thoughtfully, "despite all attempts to the contrary, Cash has yet to fall pregnant."

"You sound relieved," Johanna whispers, dreading his answer.

Harkin shoots her a considering look, picking up on her tone of voice. "Naturally," he agrees. "All women who win the Games in One are closeted away and not allowed to leave until they are no longer able to bear children. A lot of our female Victor's die that way, it's too much stress on their bodies."

Johanna and Effie retch at the thought, their faces pale and horrified. "You cannot be serious!" Effie all but shouts, disgusted and nauseous. "It's against everything the Capitol stands for!"

Harkin and Finnick are unable to help the caustic laughter at that naïve pronouncement by the escort, both men exchanging dark glances, their smiles twisted and bitter. "Oh yes," Finnick mockingly agrees, his voice not quite as smooth and sexy as is usual for him and Effie reels backwards at the sound, surprised. "Because the Capitol wouldn't dare demand it's citizens to sell their bodies so that their children, wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters are safe for one more day, for one more night!"

Effie shakes her head in silent denial, "no!"

"Oh yes," Finnick laughs bitterly, hoarsely. "I was sixteen when Harkin was shown into my bedroom and told to teach me all about having _sex_ with my adoring _sponsors_ who _saved_. _MY_. _Life_! As if it was a debt to be repaid despite it being labelled a _gift_!"

Harkin sneers in remembrance, "ah yes, such a fun time for us both," he sloughed his head to stare at Finnick, his lips twisted into a horrid smile. "Snow deciding that you could pick up my slack, leaving me to entertain Dahlia VinVivi and Aquavirius Snow. Such _delightful_ people!"

Finnick snarls at Harkin, resembling a feral wolf with his hunted eyes and hunched shoulders. "You entertain Snow's _son_? Is it he who bloodied you so?" Finnick grips Harkin's shoulder and tugging the other man closer to him, ignoring the way that Haymitch is fondling his knife with a pleasant smile on his lips.

"Yes-s," Harkin hisses, wrenching his shoulder from Finnick's cruel grip. "But not very often, even our _dear_ President is wary of that slime-ball!"

"And who do you protect, then?" Haymitch wonders aloud, smirking nastily. "Because, last I heard, you have no family, Harkin. So, who are you protecting?"

Harkin spins around, his eyes wild beneath his pitch black hair and he bares his teeth at the older man, gripping the table tight. "Who do you think, Haymitch Abernathy? Who else do I have to call my own, despite their constant and consistent wariness of me?"

"Victors," Johanna whispers, understanding finally what drove this complex and brutal man. What drove him to accept the constant humiliation of the worst scum of the Capitolites hurting him. What drove him to comfort the Victors despite their wariness and avoidance of him. What drove him to support the Tributes in the games, sneaking in extra credits into the bank accounts that were flagging. What drove him to be the man he was after everything he has seen, done and experienced.

Finnick closes his eyes in guilt, what rage he had felt draining away to an all consuming fearful guilt and relief. Thankful it isn't him. Guilt that it isn't him. Thankful that he can help. Guilt that he cannot do more. Haymitch stares at the man who he had watched murder his Tributes on screen and wonders where he went so wrong with this one. He thought he'd known all there was about District One and their Tributes and Victors, none of which was very flattering, but which has all been turned on its head and he feels so fucking guilty.

"I'm sorry," Cinna speaks for the first time, his voice smooth and deep, soothing away the rawness of the previous conversation.

Harkin shrugs, dismissive. "There's nothing to be sorry for," he states blithely, his Capitol Façade firmly back in place and he reclines backwards in his chair despite his blatant nakedness. It doesn't exactly phase him, so many people have seen him naked that to be shy now would almost be an exercise of false modesty. "I knew what I was getting into," he shrugs once more.

"Still," Haymitch rasps hoarsely, "we misjudged you. You and all of District One."

"Perhaps," Harkin shrugs again, his shoulders are starting to ache now but he ignores it and presses on. "But that doesn't mean that District One doesn't deserve its reputation. We do, but like the quiet of Twelve and the fire of Seven, it's an act. A charade for our damned survival."

Johanna bares her teeth once more before subsiding, recognising the truthful description of Seven. They did have a tendency to accidentally set alight their fields in minor rebellion every two years or so. The Capitol allows it because it's easier to let Seven burn trees than houses. It's population control and restriction. Easily managed by even the stupidest of Peace Keepers.

"So, Harkin," Cinna leans forwards, white teeth gleaming against the back drop of his dusky skin and pulling the dark haired Victor into a more attentive position, his eyes narrowing. "Are you going to put Effie out of her misery now and put some clothing on?"

Harkin stilled momentarily before barking out a short laugh and sliding is emerald gaze towards the confused, flushed and squirming Capitolite who seemed utterly unable to decide where to rest her eyes. Finnick's chest or his bare profile. Johanna and Haymitch smirk mischievously, their eyes twinkling madly. Cocking his head to the side, Harkin stood and swaggers his way over to Effie, a dangerous smirk tugging at his lips and Cinna leant backwards, enjoying the view.

"I don't think," Harkin breathes, as he leant down over Effie, trapping her stunned gaze with his own wicked one, "that Miss. Trinket desires me to clothe myself…"

Finnick barks a sharp laugh, standing and mimicking Harkin's rolling gait to join his 'Mentor' above Effie Trinket and trapping the hyperventilating woman between them, the two sex gods of the Capitol. "I don't think she does either, Hark," Finnick draws out each syllable seductively, licking his lips and slanting his eyes to the green eyed Victor beside him. "Poor girl doesn't know where to look."

Harkin smirks in agreement with Finnick's assessment, watching Effie's eyes dart from one chest to the other, her cheeks steadily reddening and her breathing becoming shorter, faster and heavier. "So it would seem," Harkin drawled, rolling his weight from one foot to the other, his muscles gleaming and rippling beneath his golden skin. He raises his hands above his head, his chest inflating and stomach stretching, drawing Effie's stunned gaze to him and he shoots Finnick a smug grin. "I win," he whispers, winking.

Finnick pouts and drags Harkin from the room, "that," he chastises without heat, his eyes flicking over their shoulders to watch as Cinna and Effie both fan themselves and trying to regain their wits while Haymitch and Johanna exchange credits, Johanna pouting at the older man, clearly having lost whatever their wager had been. Finnick smirks at the sight and returns his gaze to Harkin, steering him into the room they'd both been laid up in the past three days. "That," he repeats mock severely.

"Was hilarious?" Harkin smirks darkly.

Finnick pauses, fighting with himself before relaxing. "Yeah, okay, that was pretty funny."

"Pay up," Harkin held out a hand, his smirk widening.

Finnick backs up, holding up his hands, "there was no bet!" He protests, "I owe you nothing, there was no bet!"

"Are you welching on me?!" Harkin demands incredulously, hands on his hips, pants finally covering his lanky legs.

"No-o?" Finnick whines, crossing his hands. Harkin strolled forwards, his eyes narrowed like the hunter he was. "Harkin…" Finnick backs up, the backs of his legs hitting the edge of his bed and he winces involuntarily. Damn, he knows better than to show weakness. "Harkin," Finnick warns, raising his hands to fend off the beast. "Don't you dare, Harkin!"

"I dare!" Harkin grins, launching himself at his long time friend, tackling the other man and digging his fingers into Finnick's ribs, sending the other man into gales of laughter.

"No, no, no," Finnick pleads, "have mercy! Harkin, please, have mercy!"

"Never!" Harkin proclaims, tickling Finnick harder and revelling in this reminder of happier, simpler times when Finnick had just won and before Harkin had been gifted to the scum of Panem as their stress relief. When they had both been boys without a home, finding comfort, solace and friendship in one another. Harkin ignored the door opening, instead focussing wholly on the squealing and pleading Finnick, who was red faced with laughter, tears streaming from his eyes.

"Pay up," Johanna grins at Haymitch, who grumbles grumpily but does as she demands. "Thanks boys, you just made me a pretty credit." She smirks smugly as Finnick and Harkin twist their heads in her direction and narrow their eyes in unison.

"Finnick?" Harkin starts, a vicious grin on his face.

Finnick hums, "yes, Harkin?"

"I think Miss. Mason is getting a bit too big for her britches…" Harkin narrows his eyes and climbs off Finnick, smirking.

"I quite agree, my friend," Finnick agrees darkly. "Shall we teach her to fear the Career pack?"

"I think we must," Harkin sighs heavily and mock mournfully, his eyes glittering wickedly.

Johanna took one look at the advancing men and fled the room, both Victor's hard on her heels. There would be no mercy on Seven this night…

...

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><p><strong>Authors Note:<strong>

Ending on a slightly light-hearted note this chapter, it can't be all doom and gloom, after all. Read and review, I love hearing from you all, so please, tell me what you think. 10 words or more (that is how it goes, yes?).

Thank you all and the kindest regards to you all,

Sar'Kalu


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:**

Okay, before we get started I feel that a momentary brag moment needs to happen, thus, check it:

Reviews

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AND a whopping

**5,396 Views!**

Thank you everyone for contributing to making me feel awesome. It's a fairly rare feeling, so really, thank you!

Kind regards,

Sar'Kalu

Now, on with the real reason you're all here, the story!

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><p><strong>[Victor's Lounge, Tribute Centre, Capitol City; 74 A.D.D]<strong>

Enobaria and Brutus are furious as they watch their tributes flee the Tracker Jackers released by the Tribute from Twelve and listen to Gloss and Cashmere cry out in horror as Marvel falls to his knees by a tree, stung senseless by the Muttation wasps, and Glimmer lies nestled in the roots of a big tree, her face swollen and unrecognisable to her mentors. Behind the Victor's from the Career Districts, Harkin Black winces in tactic sympathy while mentally whistling in appreciation for Twelves bravery. Not even he is willing to tangle with Tracker Jackers, to do so was the height of foolishness or desperation. From what he can see, it had been the latter for Kitten but that makes it no less impressive to his mind.

Harkin had missed much of the Games up until this point but has since managed to catch the pertinent highlights along with Caesar and Claudius' dissections on the power plays and various alliances that have apparently settled by this stage of the Games, although, if what could be seen this morning was true, there is a second alliance being hammered out between the girls from Twelve and Eleven. Beside him, Cashmere flees the room, wet faced, to call the family of Glimmer, even though by now they will be aware of their daughters death. The sheer concentration of the venom makes it impossible for Glimmer to have survived and, frankly, it is astonishing that Clove and Marvel aren't suffering as badly, considering the way that they crash and stumble through the forested arena, listing dangerously to the side.

"Fools," Harkin comments as Twelve staggers to Glimmer's side, clearly drawn to the shiny silvery bow clutched in Glimmer's corpse. Enobaria shoots him a vicious snarl, baring sharpened teeth at him before a sickening crack redraws her attention to the vidscreen and she watches in shock as Twelve beats Glimmer's stiff fingers with a heavy stone, breaking the dead girls fingers and freeing the bow clutched tightly even in death.\

Haymitch shoots Harkin a speculative glance, ignoring the fact that he is blatantly breaking the rules by having Cinna and Effie in the Victor's lounge with him. Not that anyone was protesting, most of the Victors torn between watching the Games or helping their Tributes by pleading down phone lines to uncaring sponsors. Being a Mentor sucked to high heaven most of the time, although given the way that Brutus and Gloss were charmingly laughing as they chatted to their sponsors, not all Mentors struggle to raise funds for their Tributes.

"Who are fools, Hark?" Finnick questions as he slides into the room. Finnick's male Tribute had been killed during the bloodbath by Cato, the male Tribute from Two, leaving the male Mentor from Four without a reason to frequent the Victor's lounge, not that it stopped him.

Harkin barks a savage laugh, accepting the slip of glossy white paper from Finnick as he cocks his head in the direction of female Twelve on screen. "Our Tributes from One and Two," Harkin smirks viciously. "They should never have let her near that bow, the girl can hit a squirrels eye at a hundred paces."

Brutus sneers at Harkin, disbelieving. "Shut up, One, you're supposed to fucking Capitol brats, not fucking with our Tributes!"

Harkin stiffens slightly, his dark smirk turning brittle as he glares at Brutus, who squirms uncomfortably beneath the steely green gaze. Harkin smirks meanly, slinking closer to the brutish Victor, leaning his face close to the male Victor from Two, feathering his breath across Brutus' face. "Fucking Tributes, Brutus?" Harkin bares his teeth threateningly, "that's not _my_ predilection, Two; quite unlike yourself, yes? What was her name again? _Kerri_, wasn't it?"

Harkin can't look more smug, even if he tried, Finnick smirks to himself as he readies himself for a slight tussle. It happens frequently when the Victor's get tossed together. They were survivors. Animals in human skin. There was no kindness here, particularly not between fellow Victors. Haymitch, sensing the impending fight, has long since placed himself between Harkin and Brutus and Effie, one hand wrapped about the fearful escort, soothing her. Beside him Cinna watches the interplay curiously, wondering if this happens often, although, given the way that Gloss and Finnick watch Brutus and Harkin, he suspects that it does.

"At least I can fuck _who I choose_, One," Brutus sneers cruelly, shoving the taller Victor away from him and relaxing slightly as both Enobaria and Cecelia, a Victor from Eight, materialise at his shoulders. "Can't say the same for _yourself_, of course," Brutus goads, sharing a smirk with Enobaria.

Harkin grits his teeth, raising a fist before backing down, smirking widely. He laughs, shaking his head at the sight of Brutus flanked by two of the most least desirable female Victors; Enobaria with her sharpened teeth and cosmetically reddened eyes, and Cecelia with her morphling affected body and empty soul. All three were loathed, to a point, by the Capitol as they were celebrated for their cruel winnings of the Games. Of course, Cecelia was equally loved for gifting the Capitol with three healthy children to compete in the Games as soon as they were of age. One of which was rumoured to be Brutus'.

"Oh Brutus," Harkin grins, backing away from the older man with a cruel grin on his features. "Oh my dear naïve Two, how you will _weep_ for speaking so to me," Harkin's eyes were slits as he glares at the other Victor, his teeth bared and expression feral. "Perhaps you speak thus from jealousy and perhaps, with the right words…" Harkin trails off, his implication clear. Either Brutus apologises immediately or the other Victor will be right beside Harkin and Finnick selling his body to the drooling droves of Capitolites. "It wouldn't be hard."

Brutus flinches but doesn't back down, his eyes hard and cruel, "like Snow would _ever_ listen to you, Black!" Brutus' smile is vicious, "you _murdered_ his daughter!"

"Effie was _nothing_ more than trash to our _beloved_ President," Harkin says with certainty, his eyes gleaming as he circles the older Victor, utterly uncaring of the interest inspired in Haymitch and Cinna by his intimation at being able to influence Snow. Neither had considered that any Victor was so beloved by the President as to actually be able to speak with him as if equals.

Brutus is backing away, hands clenched into tight fists as he glares furiously and helplessly at the younger Victor with green eyes, how he wishes to destroy the man! "You're lying!" Brutus hisses, "_no one would listen to scum like you!_"

"Clearly being considered _fuckable_ is _worthy_ of regard," Harkin sneers, his voice slithering like a snake through the grass as he circles Brutus with deadly intent. "But then, I _am_ Snow's _personal_ fuck-toy, or had you not _considered_ that, Brutus?" Harkin's grin is both sickened and triumphant and he lunges forwards, gripping the heavier man by the throat and pinning him in place, emphasising his height and dominance. "I need," Harkin hisses in Brutus' ear, loud enough to be heard by the gathered Victors. "But _say_ _a_ _single_ _word_, Brutus Auric, and Snow will _bend_ _over_ _backwards_ to accommodate me. I have _none_ to protect, _none_ I care for and _Snow desires my ass too much to even consider loosing it…_"

Brutus is trembling in Harkin's grip, his eyes lowered in deference to Harkin's wrath, holding up his hands in plea for his life. "I-" he coughs, his breath rasping in his throat. "I apologise, Harkin Black, for any insult given… please," he pleads desperately, "please, let me go!"

Harkin considers the older man, weighing up his options before releasing the other Victor almost indifferent. "You will say nothing against any who suffer this life, Auric," Harkin warns, eyes gleaming. "Or you will join me when Aquavirius Snow next comes calling."

For Brutus that threat was one too many and he falls back to Enobaria and Cecelia's sides, eyes wary and fearful as he watches Harkin exchange a brief flow of information with Finnick and Johanna before sweeping from the Victor's Lounge with an aura of well deserved arrogance. Not for the first time, Brutus wonders why he does this to himself, why he forces his frustration and anger at the Capitol on Harkin Black, a boy who does not deserve his cruelty and who once received respect and awe from Brutus for his handling of his Games.

What has changed since then? Brutus doesn't know, nor does he think he wants to know.

…

…

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><p><span><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Hello my lovelies, another chapter for you all because I adore you so. Okay, most of you I adore, some I'm utterly confused by.

Thus, I must say to my dear Guest who requested that I pair Harkin with Finnick, I'm going to have to decline. Their relationship is certainly, minority sexualised as they are ex-sexual partners (as in Harkin taught Finnick to have sex) but otherwise their relationship is completely and utterly fraternal. Finnick is as straight as they come, people, I cannot see the guy with a cock up his ass, neither should you. Thus, cease asking me.

Harkin on the other hand, I have several partnerings lined up for; one I am already laying the ground work for. Yes, you may all place bets, I'll be interested to see the results.

That said, thank you everyone who left me a review, I do enjoy reading your thoughts, comments and criticisms. Some are actually quite thought provoking.

Thank you once more and the kindest regards to you all,

Sar'Kalu


	13. Chapter 13

**[Dahlia ViVivi's Residence, Capitol City; 74 A.D.D]**

The door is open when he arrives at Dahlia's residence, and he pushes the door wider with the palm of his hand while his eyes scan the room carefully. Dahlia has been known to charge out of her bedroom before and attack him with lips and tongue before dragging him with surprising strength to her bed and chaining him to the headboard. Today that doesn't happen as Dahlia is seated on the couch, her scarlet hair re-dyed its original black that makes her pale skin and luminous blue eyes all the more startling as she stares at him with a cold expression.

She stands, her favourite navy dress of satin flowing about her thin body and bony hips seductively, drawing his emerald gaze. "You're late," she says, prowling forwards and shoving the door shut with a violent 'bang'. Harkin stays still, he knows this woman, she does not appreciate him making excuses for anything at all. She smiles coldly, "you know something."

Harkin tilts his head to the side, not entirely sure if he should be explaining to her his plan to save her misbegotten skin. Dahlia watches him silently for a moment, waiting for him to speak. When he doesn't, her face folds into lines of fury and frustration, her hand flying free and catching him across his cheekbones. Harkin's head snaps back, blood tainting his mouth as his teeth cut the inside of his cheeks. She sneers at him, irritated by his silent submissiveness. Normally Harkin shouts and argues, like she prefers him to. Like she has ordered him to.

"Why are you here?" She hisses, spinning away from the dark haired Victor, stalking over to the balcony where glass panelled doors keep her safe from the loose balustrade that Snow has ordered to be tampered with. Harkin believes that Dahlia is ignorant of this fact, but he does wonder if she knows as she spins around once more and fixes him with that sapphire gaze. "Tell me, _Victor_," the title is a sneer in her mouth, "do you come because I call? Or, because Snow demands it of you?"

"Because you call," Harkin lies effortlessly, as he has ever been instructed by Snow. He licks his lips and saunters forwards, "do you doubt my faithfulness?" It's a joke between them, Dahlia knows more about his exploits than anyone else, even Snow. While Harkin mocks her hold on him in the only way he knows how.

Dahlia barks a short, sharp laugh and presses a hand against his collarbones. "Oh my sweet," she whispers, her eyes glittering with deadly malice, "I doubt nothing at all!"

Harkin presses against the soft hand restraining him, a razored smile stretching his lips. "Nothing?" He breathes, smirking dangerously.

"Nothing," Dahlia answers, shifting her hand to his shoulders and pressing the long line of her body against his length, her other hand dipping beneath the waistband of his trousers and squeezing his penis almost too tightly. "You seem excited to see me, beloved," she smirks at him and Harkin bares his teeth in reply.

"Not at all," he assures her, running his nose along her shoulders, neck and just in front of her ear, breathing gently into her auditory canals, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. "You know that I have no favourites," and Dahlia gasps lightly, shifting her breasts against his chest seductively while rolling her hips, seeking friction for the heat between her thighs. Harkin dips his head once more, pressing kisses and gentle bites to the soft skin of her neck, trying to ignore the slight thrusts his hips made into the warm, soft heat of her hand.

"You don't," she whispers to him, her eyes gleaming, "have to lie to me, Harkin Black. We both _know_ that you love me best… _Brother_."

Harkin steps back, disgusted at the reminder, "truly, Dahlia-"

Dahlia snarls, her hands like claws, one slick with pre-come, as she grasps the front of his shirt and bares her teeth in threat. "Don't lie to me Harkin," she warns him, her blue eyes like fire as she glares at him. "It never ends well."

Harkin snarls in return and they both look like the siblings they are, standing in thimble of Dahlia's sky-rise apartment glaring at each other. "Just because we share the same father-"

"What?" Dahlia hisses in a fury, "that means that we aren't _siblings_, Harkin?" She lunges forwards and shoves her hand down his pants, grabbing him cruelly by his balls, his penis swelling even further at the touch of her petit hand. "Like you don't love _this_!" She snarls at him, enraged. "Like you don't love emptying your _precious_ cock and balls into my _cunt_, Harkin! Like you don't _revel_ in every _touch_ and every little bit of _pain_!"

Harkin retaliates, slamming Dahlia against the walls of her apartment, her head bouncing against the dry wall as his callused fingers worm their way into her slick folds. "And the fact that you are _dripping_ from me," he crooks a finger roughly, making her cry out and buckle against him and he breathes roughly into her ear, his voice hoarse with rage. "Precludes you, obviously," he snarls wrathfully, "from loving _this_ as much as I do?"

His thumb presses painfully against her cliterous, rubbing against it roughly and grunting as Dahlia drops his balls and seizes his penis and starts stroking it. Her free hand is tangled at the nape of his neck in the hair there, tugging painfully against the long black strands as she bites his cheeks and shoulders, drawing blood as she does so. Harkin shoves her dress up and pins both of Dahlia's hands over her head before slamming his thick penis into her vagina roughly, the tip bouncing off her cervix. He thrusts against her, grinning dangerously as she hooks her feet behind his back, pulling him further in and forcing him past her cervix's entrance.

Their lovemaking, if it could be called that, is rough and nasty. Each one trying to squeeze pain from their partner and pleasure from themselves. For them it was about their hatred of each other and themselves. Dahlia because Harkin represented the family that she should have had as a child and now she punishes him for that, loathing him and loving him in equal amounts. While Harkin feels a deep sense of betrayal, furious at Dahlia for stealing his happy ignorance about his identity and family. He too, hates her as much as he loves the idea of her.

Dahlia lunges up as Harkin's trembling body signifies his release and bites his lower lip, kissing and savaging him at the same time while tears of rage flow from her eyes and he releases her hands to brutally rub her cliterous with his rough fingers, bringing her off with him. She slides off him, her feet hitting the floor with a dull thud as she glares at him, tears in her eyes.

"I hate you," she hisses, shoving him away, disregarding the blood that runs down his chin and neck. "I hope you die!"

Harkin sneers at her, watching as she withdraws from him, turning her face away. "Oh I know you do, sister dear," he snarls quietly. "Which is precisely why I have to do this."

Dahlia turns quick enough to catch the sight of his fist that collides with her temple before she crumples to the floor. Harkin stands above her, his shirt untucked and his half-hard penis hanging from the top of his open pants and sneers down at his sisters unconscious body. Tucking himself away, Harkin then slings the woman into his arms and slips from the room towards the rear entrance, there, in a van, two men in dark green jumpsuits with guns meet him, accepting his burden and whisking her away to safety…

To Thirteen…

...

...

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

And there we have it, unlucky number Thirteen and the reasoning behind Harkin's unwillingness to kill his most hated client, Dahlia Vinvivi. Surprise!

That said, there has been some confusion regarding 'pairings'; can I just clarify, for myself a 'pairing' means relationship as in Katniss/Peeta or Finnick/Annie for example. Sex on the other hand, does not rate on the pairing scale, thus it's open season on the 'people we want to have sex' scale. Therefore, Harkin will probably be unlikely to have a 'pairing' as such, although we shall see how he develops as a character, but as a Capitol Whore, his sex quota is sky high.

We all good? Awesome.

Hope you enjoyed the last chapter plus plot twist. Bet none of you saw that coming.

Kindest regards,

Sar'Kalu


	14. Chapter 14

**[The Capitol; 74 A. D. D]**

He has spent the past day wandering the streets pretending to be searching for Dahlia, who has supposedly escaped Snow and him. Harkin ducks behind a dumpster, ignoring the brilliant scarlet colouring, and snatches up the man hiding behind there. He knows more about the low life of the city now than he has ever wanted to in the past, yet appearances must be kept and his life depends on his acting. Harkin has no desire to decorate Snow's pre-Dark Day's inspired 'stretcher'. The screams alone spoke of how awful a way to die it was.

Harkin pins the ancient looking tramp to the wall and eyeballs him and is about to start interrogating the man when the tramp opens his mouth, showing the missing tongue inside and Harkin drops him, disgusted. Fucking avox, he thinks, stalking from the alleyway and back onto the main road. His communicator pings him and Harkin pulls it from his pocket and reads the message.

_H-_

_Tribute Centre, final eight, you've got to see this!_

_-F_

Harkin snorts as he shoots off an affirmative, it's hardly late but he also knows that there will be little to find today. Mainly because he already knows where Dahlia is and he has no true desire to find her. Not that Snow can know that. Harkin's not thrilled with his life but he's hardly suicidal.

The Tribute Centre is dead silent as he tracks through the lobby towards the elevators. Not even Snow demands he work during the final eight countdown. To have survived so far in the Games is usually cause for celebration. Although, not for the Victors. Harkin strides past the elevators and through the long winding corridors towards the Victor's lounge at the very end of the corridor.

It is here that the tension is highest and Finnick and Haymitch wave him over to their spot central to the rest of the room. Gloss and Cashmere slide towards him, Cashmere leaning against him as she fills him in on what has since happened.

"Twelve has made an alliance with Eleven and have hashed out a plan to destroy the food stock pile by the cornucopia," she whispers, drawing a furious glance from Brutus, who immediately backs down at Harkin's challenging gaze. Two isn't stupid enough to take Harkin up on that challenge, not after his most recent beating.

Harkin hums in understanding and watches as Twelve sneaks forwards, drawing an arrow and notching it to her bowstring. He snorts in amusement as Twelve stills and watches Five leap free of the bushes nearby and do a complicated serious of jumps around what he supposes must be bombs. It's almost dance-like and Harkin grins as the fox-faced girl from Five scrambles up and down the pile of food, gathering up as much as she could carry before fleeing once more in great leaping bounds. The boy from Three chases after her, leaving Twelve to take a shot.

"She won't make that!" Brutus scoffs, but despite his apparent confidence, Harkin can see the true and very real worry hidden in his eyes that leaves Harkin to suspect that Brutus is just bluffing.

Chaff's clearly noticed the same thing because he speaks up, his own voice far more confident and proud, "wanna bet on it, Two?"

Brutus swings around and meets Eleven's steady gaze and hesitates visibly. "Alright," Brutus agrees savagely, holding out his left hand cruelly, smirking at the other man. "Let's shake on it!"

"No need," Gloss grins ferociously, stepping forwards, pointing. "She's already done it!"

Brutus snarls as he turns once more and Harkin watches curiously as Twelve steps free of the bushes and out into plain sight and looses two arrows, both hitting the bottom of a sack of fruit and sending apples tumbling free. He can see it happen before he does and he hears Haymitch let out a shocked cry of dismay as his Tribute is bodily picked up by the violent explosion and flung backwards. _She's damn lucky that her bow didn't break_, Harkin thinks in admiration as Twelve staggers upright, fleeing the scene of the crime as the Tribute from Two return, furious at the sight of their food blown sky high.

Harkin watches blankly as Three's neck is snapped with brutal efficiency and his gaze is drawn to a second screen which shows Twelve racing through the forest screaming for her ally while a third depicts the girl from Eleven being caught up in a net and screaming for Twelve. He watches it happen with a sense of resignation. There is nothing to be done for the two girls as he watches Marvel sneak up on Eleven and stare at her in utter delight. The look of someone who never expected something to work as well as it has.

Marvel's delight is turn to shock and rage as Twelve bursts from the surrounding forest and alights by her ally's side, using a knife to cut the little girl free. Beside Harkin, Finnick is watching the confrontation with a pale face and hollow eyes. It's hitting him too close to home and Harkin wonders what the younger man is thinking.

It almost happens in slow motion. Eleven's face pales in shock and fear. Twelve spins around, narrowly missing being speared by Marvel while releasing her own arrow so smoothly it's dreamlike. Marvel chokes, clutching the arrow in his throat in horror and surprise, before sinking to his knees as he drowns on his own blood. Eleven chokes, the sound drawing Twelve's gaze. Twelve turns once more, spots Eleven and her face morphs into a rictus of pain and horror that is so heart wrenching that even Brutus makes a brief sympathetic expression.

Harkin watches as Twelve promises to survive and feels his stomach lurch in protest, one hand drifting up to rub at his sternum. He turns to leave but is quickly frozen in place as a sorrow filled voice chokes out a horrifically wobbly song and Harkin returns his eyes to the screen and watches Twelve sing to the dying girl, not stopping even after the cannon goes off, and then stands, gathers flowers and continues to sing while paying tribute to another Districts daughter. A girl she had never met until four weeks ago.

Harkin is unable to help lifting his hand, three fingers extended, in salute alongside all the other Victors as Twelve's female Tribute raises her own to the cameras. Even Brutus, Enobaria and Chaff pay respect to the shockingly humanising act that Twelve has done before millions. However, Harkin is wary of what this will mean. What this action will do to Twelve and her family. If Victor's were at the whims of the Capitol and Snow, what did that make the Tributes?

Cannon fodder, surely…

...

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I'd apologise for the late update but find myself particularly unapologetic as I'm having a shit ton of fun in Australia's party capitol, Melbourne. Man do I love this city! Seriously, if you ever get the chance, go. Sure it's not New York or Paris, but it as its own charm.

That said, tell me what you really think! Also, warning. Next chapter is NOT FOR THE WEAK STOMACHED! Seriously, I'll be shoving up a potential vomit-inducing warning. I'll be writing the one sexy-times 'pairing-thingy' that NO ONE has requested. Because I'm evil like that.

Kind regards,

Sar'Kalu


	15. Chapter 15

**WARNING!**

**WARNING!**

**Strong sexual themes and violence! **

**WARNING!**

**WARNING!**

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><p><strong>[Presidential Office, Presidential Palace, Capitol City; 74 A.D.D]<strong>

Snow was waiting for him when he arrived as was usual, Harkin had never seen the man outside his office bar the hobnobbing parties that they were both expected to attend. Except today was different. Today was the meeting post the rebelling of two of Snow's subjects, and, as was to be expected, Snow was furious. Dressed in the finest white silks, Snow somehow managed to seethe without his expression moving passed it's sly smile. Harkin crept into the office, his eyes flicking from side to side nervously while desperately trying to feel the slightest bit of confidence as he sank into the seat opposite Snow's desk.

"Harkin," Snow begins mirthlessly, blue eyes blazing and boring into Harkin's slightly slumped body. Harkin knows better than to be anything but proper here. He has learned the hard way that Snow appreciates good manners. "What happened, my boy?" Snow's question brings to mind another white haired, blue eyes man of an elderly nature but that was where the similarities end and Harkin finds it increasingly difficult to breath.

"I-" He chokes, "I don't know!"

Snow stands, tapping twice on the corner of his desk as he does so, "that's not good enough. Explain to me why it took two days till you reported Dahlia VinVivi's flight from the Capitol into rebel hands? Explain to me why a silly little girl from Twelve has managed to start riots in three Districts? _Explain to me_, Harkin, why you have done little to stop any of this?"

Harkin opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, arms restrain him with steel cuffs that snap his wrists behind his back and a thick steel chain is attached to the cuffs, jerking him upright and roughly tugging at his shoulders. Snow prowled forwards, waving off the two Peace Keepers after they had slid the metal chain through a loop that had been affixed to the ceiling, unnoticed by Harkin, whose chest rose and fell in increasing panic.

"Harkin, my boy," Snow whispers, running aged hands along the Victor's falsely smooth skin, knowing that had there been no cosmetic surgery, Harkin would be crisscrossed with white lines both thick and thin, telling tales of his extracurricular activities, as it were. He rests a hand against Harkin's sternum, feeling the fluttering desperation of Harkin's heart beneath the thin layer of skin and bone. It's all he can do to not sink his nails into Harkin's skin and draw blood, but that's not his style. Instead he leans against the younger man, smoothing his hands across bronzed skin and smiling cruelly as Harkin shivers and twitches beneath his touch.

"Harkin," Snow breaths, pulling a small, thin knife from his pocket and running it along the seams of Harkin's clothing. "You've been so good to me over the years," Snow says as he slides the pieces of Harkin's over-shirt from his straining body, making sure to pause long enough to explore Harkin's bare arms and neck and shoulders just long enough that the dark haired Victor's eyes are closed in shame as he tries to refrain from reacting. "But I'm so disappointed in you, my boy," Snow says, the knife slipping in his hands and drawing a thin line of blood that is startling against Harkin's skin and Snow presses a brief kiss to the bicep, drawing his tongue slowly over the cut, soothing it while apologising mockingly.

Harkin shudders as his undershirt, his training uniform, is pulled from his body. Unravelled like a ball of string, revealing bronzed skin twitching and shivering with every touch. Snow places his knife down and brushes his hands along Harkin's shoulders and across the back of the Victor's neck, knowing how much the self-contained man would loathe it. Then, slowly and carefully while avoiding the bound hands and crossed arms that rest against Harkin's lower back, Snow brushes feathery touches to Harkin's back and sides, smirking nastily as the young Victor's skin ripples over his muscular frame.

As he does so, Snow licks and bites gently, nipping his way down before kneeling at the Victor's feet and pulling his knife free of his pocket once more. He's careful as he unravels Harkin's pants, grinning viciously as he realises that Harkin's gone commando. No words are spoken as Snow gathers up the clothing and balled it up before throwing it away from them. Despite his submissive position at Harkin's feet, the balance of power is firmly with Snow, still fully clothed and extracting shivers, twitches and gasps from the horrified Victor strung up like a plucked duck from the ceiling.

"Come, my boy," Snow smirks cruelly as he runs questing fingers up the younger man's legs and over his thighs. Tracing creases in the skin and the folds and dips of his muscles drawing a stirring of interest in Harkin's penis as it fills with blood beneath Snow's triumphant gaze. "Let me gift you," Snow breathes out gently, eyes malicious as he leans forwards and puffs heated air across Harkin's turgid penis, "with a reward."

There is nothing rewarding about this experience, Harkin thinks as he resigns himself to Snow's parody of tender loving touches. Snow knows what Harkin's buyers do to him. Snow knows that the only kindness Harkin ever gets is from his fellow Victors and that, in doing this, Snow knows that he taints every touch, every memory of love, tenderness and kindness for the green eyed Victor. In this, Snow gives not a reward, but a punishment.

Harkin's feet barely brush the ground as Snow runs questing hands over his shoulders, across his chest and down his stomach. Pinching his nipples gently and then leaning up to lick at them, salving the slight pain inspired from the cruel touch. Snow then licks a long stripe from groin, up his fluttering stomach muscles and to his clavicle where Snow devotees from the pattern so far to nip at Harkin's neck and shoulders. Harkin watches as Snow rears up on his knees, steadying himself with Harkin's shoulders, pressing down and eliciting a a cry of pain from the younger man, and took advantage of that opened mouth to press their lips together and invade Harkin's mouth with his blood tinged tongue that curled and coiled about Harkin's own like a snake.

No longer would the scent of roses and copper haunt his days, but the taste of blood and festering sores would linger for the rest of his days. Harkin gagged as Snow allowed saliva to well in his mouth before spitting it directly into the dark haired Victor's mouth, smirking darkly as he did so. As Harkin struggled to not vomit, knowing that it would go badly for him if he did, Snow reached down and grabbed Harkin's hips, thumbs digging into the stretchy skin that pulled tight over the hollows of his hip bones. The touch sent tingles racing up his spine and Harkin was unable to help arching into the pressure only to cry out once more as the movement wrenched at his shoulders and tore at his wrists.

Snow knew that Harkin, despite the pain, was getting close and reaches down and grasps the Victor's twitching and neglected penis. Tracing along the vein and running a thumb over the slit, Snow grins cruelly as Harkin thrusts once more and with a firm 'crack' dislocates both shoulders and tears through his deltoid muscles. Bruises bloom beneath suddenly pale skin and Snow ignores the sharp cry that Harkin looses and savagely twists his wrist to keep the younger man occupied with his sex drive. It works like a charm and soon, despite the pain, Harkin is moaning and thrusting with abandon, wrenching his muscles further and destroying his vessels as blood fills his joints and beneath his skin.

With a shocked cry, Harkin comes violently, spraying the carpet white and narrowly missing the President, who shoves himself to his feet, trailing hands soothingly over Harkin's neck, shoulders and arms again. The touch is still as tender and loving as before and as Harkin begins to regain his senses, he feels the dirtiest since he'd began this trade of selling sex for safety. Snow smiles and presses a kiss to the younger man's forehead and cheeks, just this shy of mocking the other man for loosing all sense of dignity in front of the one man it matters most.

"My clever, clever boy," Snow whispers into Harkin's ears as he presses cruelly against Harkin's shoulder blades, feathering rancid, coppery breath across his face. "What have you done to yourself?"

…

…

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I am not entirely sure if everyone here will get the significance of this chapter, I did my best to explain but it leads into the next chapter as an important development into who Harkin becomes. Just a hint for all concerned, coz I appreciate you guys.

That said, drop me a note, what did you think?

Kind regards,

Sar'Kalu


	16. Chapter 16

**WARNING!**

**...**

**Triggering content!**

**...**

**WARNING!**

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><p><strong>[District One Suite, Tribute Centre, Capitol City; 74 A.D.D]<strong>

Harkin spends the next week in and out of the shower, not eating and steadily scrubbing his skin off. Never, not since the very beginning, has he ever felt like this. His shoulders have been long since healed and Harkin ignores the usual warnings against breaking or dislocating his arms once more, knowing that he has no choice in the matter. His arms will be broken and dislocated over and over again if his Clients wish, simply because he has no say in the matter. They _enjoy_ hurting him.

Yet none of them, _not one_, have hurt him as badly as _Coriolanus Snow has _in one hour.

Harkin sits in the bottom of his shower once more, his skin pink and raw as he rubs and rubs at his arms, his shoulders, his neck, his legs, abdomen and stomach. The sight of his body, pink and shivering, disgusts him in more ways than anything else has. As the hot water runs to cold, Harkin reaches up and shuts it off. He has enough presence of mind to know that cold water will be far worse for him than loosing a victim is. He has to be able to work after all.

Snow will _not_ accept any kind of excuses. Not anymore.

At the thought of Snow, Harkin lets out a choked whimper and scuttles from the shower room and into his bedroom. He's hunched over and trembling as he snatches up clothing and tries to cover himself when hands brush over his back and shoulders sending him stumbling sideways, whipping his pants around as though they were a spear. A flimsy barrier between himself and his attacker.

"No!" He shouts hoarsely, stunning Gloss with his shaking, trembling and all round un-Harkin like behaviour. "Don't touch me!"

Gloss holds up his hands as if to a wild beast, "okay, okay," he soothes, staring at his mentor in shock. What had happened to the vibrant and cruel Victor to reduce him a quivering mess? Gloss isn't entirely sure he wants to know. Harkin's eyes, which have always been big and green, are filling with tears and his face is white and panicked while his hands wrap about his shivering, naked and red-raw body.

Harkin stills as his eyes seem to settle and calm, noticing that Gloss is _not_ Snow. That the man before him is _blonde_, _large_ and _warm_ with compassion and comfort. Large hands reach out and grip his shoulders, holding him like he might shatter from the force of his shaking. Calluses rub against his tender and raw skin, eliciting pain that drives back the horrific memories of Snow's falsely loving touches.

"Harkin," Gloss breathes, pulling the older man into a tight embrace. "What have they done to you?" This is not the first time that either the twins have come across their mentor in a state which suggests abuse, both physical and mental. This is, however, the worst that Gloss has _personally_ seen.

Harkin doesn't answer, his eyes and face blanked of all emotion as he stares at Gloss and trembles like a leaf in the breeze. Gloss feels helpless and distraught in the face of his mentor's shut down and wishes that he knew what to do in cases such as these. Normally, when Harkin came back from a Client who had used him cruelly, Gloss, Cashmere or Finnick would reintroduce Harkin into kindness and compassion. Warming he and his body with tender touches that were nothing like the harshness that the dark haired Victor experienced otherwise.

As he rubs hands over Harkin's shoulders and upper arms, however, Gloss is forced to admit that this time, it doesn't seem to be working. While Finnick has only recently discovered the truth behind Harkin's Clientele, Gloss and Cashmere had long since known. After all, they lived, loved and shared a room together. Had done so for the past eleven or so years. Harkin has no idea just how many times he had slipped into delirium, telling Cash and Gloss far too much over the years.

And if _Snow_ knew how much he and his sister knew, the President had yet to mention it.

"Harkin, my brother, my lover, what happened?" Gloss breathes, gripping Harkin's shoulders tightly. "Please, Hark, talk to me!" He shakes him a little with every word, trying to reach the other man with force and determination.

Yet the dark haired Victor doesn't react at all, his face blank and body listless, trapped in whatever place Gloss had startled him into. Gloss is getting more and more frantic as minutes slip by, until, in the end, he decides to do what he and Cashmere have always done. Treat their mentor and lover with kindness. Snap him out of whatever hell hole Harkin found himself in.

Gloss started with gentle touches at first, careless sweeps of his broad hands over neck, chest, shoulders, stomach and thighs as he avoids the more sensitive places on Harkin's body, such as his nipples, groin and face. Too much too quickly could often result in the 'fight' reflex kicking in; and the last time that had happened, Gloss had needed his face rearranged and nose reconstructed, not to mention various splints, casts and pins to hold his ribs and femur in place. Cashmere had been strangely unsympathetic with him, her glorious green eyes sarcastically pleased with his situation while Harkin, once he'd been brought back to his normal state of mind, had been apologetic and horrified.

"Harkin," Gloss breathes as he presses kisses down Harkin's neck and clavicles. "Come back to me, Harkin!" Gloss presses the other man back onto the bed, careful of the Victor's limbs that draw in close to his body protectively before relaxing trustingly, recognising the sound of Gloss' voice and the feel of Gloss' hands. "Please!"

Harkin reacts predictably, first with unconscious desire as his mind is subconsciously aware of Gloss' movements, then, the dark haired man stiffens, moaning with remembered pain and terror, curling in on himself and away from Gloss, who stands above him fully clothed and anxious.

"Harkin!" Gloss rasps hoarsely, grabbing Harkin's shoulders and flipping the other man onto his back and pressing their bodies flush together.

Harkin bucks at the unexpected added weight, yelling hoarsely as he slips into a panic attack. A slap across his face draws him back into the present and he finds himself staring up at Gloss, who is staring into his emerald gaze with his own moss green. "Gloss," Harkin voices, identifying his 'attacker'.

"_Oh_," Gloss gasps, abruptly enfolding his mentor into a tight embrace, his face crumpling with relief. "You're okay! Thank Peace!"

Harkin squirms in the hug, feeling uncomfortable and pained. "Gloss, _please. _Let. Me. Go!"

Gloss does so, releasing the other man hastily, stepping back as he does so and staring at the darker haired man. "What happened?" Gloss asks tightly, his mouth pinched unhappily.

"Snow," Harkin rasps, pained as the memory of Snow's snake-like touches feather across his skin like butterfly wings. "He wanted to… gift me a… reward." Harkin shudders again and tucks his head in against his chest. "He knows what you three do for me after… I visit my… crueler clients."

"What did he do?" Gloss reaches out for Harkin, hand trembling as it lands hesitantly on Harkin's forearms that have wrapped about the other man's head, his elbows pressed tightly into his knees. "Hark, you can tell me."

Harkin shudders once more, before nodding jerkily and continuing: "He did the opposite," Harkin whispers, the words and syllables drawn out long and aching. "With kindness and love, I've ever been his favourite…" Harkin is trembling so badly that his skin appears to be rippling and twitching. His face is so grey Gloss fears that the older Victor might pass out from fear. "He touched… He touched…"

Harkin can't continue but Gloss can fill in the rest. Ignoring the other mans protests, he wraps his arms about Harkin's chest and hugs him tightly. "Not true," Gloss rasps, rubbing his hands over the older mans body, delving and dipping his fingers over the skin and into the more… sensitive areas with his eyes closed and breath feathering across Harkin's flushed skin. "No one, not even my sister or Four love you as I do. Not the President. Not even your parents, whomever they are. No one," Gloss' words are fevered and harsh, rasping like steel wool over exposed, raw skin.

Harkin struggles, his mind too fogged with fear and the haze of confusion to truly protest Gloss' words. Gloss ignores his Mentors movements, his body and heart swelling at the dark haired Victor's non-protests, revelling in his glorious victory that he has sought for _years_. He has ever adored his Mentor. Harkin was… special to him.

Gloss' hands roved over Harkin, marvelling at his warm soft skin and the smattering of hair in attractive places. Gloss' eyes open and take in Harkin's struggling limbs that are weak with protest and denial that one whom he had felt safest would dare harm him like this. Gloss, however, was too far gone in his mind sickness to realise this. Instead of protest he saw desire. Harkin's face, screwed up and red, showed pleasure not pain; and the huffed words of 'no' and 'stop please', became 'please, don't stop' to his hungering ears.

Harkin was pinned to the bed by the shorter man who's blonde hair trailed fiery disgust along his flesh and veins. Gloss' hot mouth sucked, bit and drew blood, viciously telling him of his desire, his pleasure, his adoration for the dark haired Victor beneath him and it was all Harkin could do, to not weep in helpless frustration. A week of not eating, of not sleeping had left him weak as a newborn kitten and his fumbling grip hardly made an impression on the determined Gloss, who bent over him and breathed deep in his groin and pressed harsh kisses to his penis, testicles and perineum before sinking, unprepared, into Harkin's quivering body…

...

...

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><p><span>Author's Note:<span>

I'd apologise for adding another awful content chapter in, but it's necessary. As for the lack of updates, you would not believe how hard this was to write and I half-heartedly apologise for all the Gloss Fans out there. I like Gloss, I really do, but he's my scapegoat here and it's gonna lead up to something big and important.

The next chapters going to be as bad, if not worse. I'm not sorry for that, this story was ever and always going to be dark and nasty.

Hope you all enjoyed, kind regards

Sar'Kalu

P.S: If anyone, and I really mean it, anyone has ever treated you like the above, that it abuse and not okay. I'd recommend going to the police and making a formal complaint and talking it out with someone whom you trust explicitly.


	17. Chapter 17

**[Presidential Office, Presidential Palace, Capitol City; 74 A.D.D]**

Finnick Odair is not one for panicking, indeed the golden haired Victor rather enjoyed the belief that he was steady nerved and reliable. Yet the state of his Mentor and friend, Harkin Black following his latest entanglements with his clients have left Finnick feeling wholly and utterly heartbroken.

A feeling which has led him to the wide spaces of President Snow's office within the Presidential Palace. Finnick hates this place. The memories associated with it and the people he has met within it. Although, there are some good memories, but they are few and far between. He had met Harkin the first time here… Years ago…

_Sitting nervously on the golden chairs before the President's desk and trying, desperately, to assure himself that nothing will truly change. Harkin had swept in, gloriously dark and dangerous, met his eyes and laughed loudly and dismissively. _

_"Who's the rabbit, President Snow?" Harkin had asked, his green eyes glowing with mirth._

_Snow had stared back at the older boy, unimpressed. "Your new student, Black," Snow replied coldly, his eyes pale and dark. _

_"Seriously," Harkin had asked, eyes turning to weight up the sixteen year old boy from District Four before him. "Bit young, isn't he?"_

_"No younger than you, when you first began," Snow had stated dissuasively, shooing them from his office. "Begone, return when he is decent."_

_Harkin had done so and even at eighteen had been tall, long and lanky albeit without the breath of shoulder and chest that showed the power of his training and dedication. Finnick had been in awe then, and he was still in awe now. Although for completely different reasons…_

"Enter!" A voice barks, shocking Finnick from his memories and sending him stumbling into the office with wary eyes and trembling hands. President Snow meets his gaze, bemused and silently curious. "Finnick, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Harkin…" Finnick trails off as Snow's attention, which was torn between his second favourite Victor and his mountains of paperwork before him, suddenly narrows to focus entirely on Finnick. It's quite uncomfortable, Finnick reflects, his sea-green eyes wide and very, very nervous.

"What about Harkin Black?" Snow demands, his eyes furious.

"He's…" Finnick licks his lips. "He's not… entirely… there, Mr. President. It's like someone has sucked out his soul. He won't sleep. He won't eat. I don't know what to do anymore!" Finnick's last bursts from him like a geyser of words, fear and concern for his friend bubbling in his chest unpleasantly and spreading ice through his veins.

Snow raises a brow, "and so you've come to me," Snow considers the golden haired Victor, wondering if anything else could go wrong. In between the Game Makers blunder with the two Victor's idea and his own sons near death at the hands of the rebellious outer-lying Districts who had caught a lucky shot with an acorn of all things, Snow was feeling the pressure.

"Please, sir," Finnick pleads desperately, all but falling on the floor in panic and fear. "If you can help him, please!"

Snow weighs his options but knows that, in this, he has no choice. He might hate Harkin Black for many reasons, not the least of which is his ridiculous popularity with his sheep-like populace of the Capitol, but he also owes the boy a considerable amount; and it is that owing that he hates most of all. In this, he can avert some of that indebtedness and incur some of his own…

"It will be done," Snow concedes finally, his smooth words sinking deeply into Finnick Odair's skin and sagging him to the ground. "You may leave," Snow directs the other man, returning to his paperwork in a show of unconcern.

Finnick does as he is bid, sliding from the room in silence. Praying desperately that Snow upholds his end of the bargain. While knowing that next month will be hellish and difficult.

He doesn't even come close.

Finnick hasn't seen Harkin in the hospital because he hasn't had time. What free time he does have is spent holed up with Mags and crying into her thin shirts, his shoulders shaking with fear and silent, helpless rage. He has never been this used or abused and Haymitch sits with them and snarls, quietly, to himself while Cinna, who follows the Victor from Twelve like a puppy, watches and waits, his eyes and voice kind yet underlined with a current of righteous fury.

It is days until Harkin is released and every day Finnick reminds himself why he does this. Why he has taken on his and Harkin's burden to bear while the other man rests and recovers within Capitol walls. Finnick loves Harkin. Not as a lover, because that would be inappropriate or as a husband, because Harkin would never accept it. As a father, a mentor, a friend and as a confident, because that is all that he can have, and because Harkin means _everything_ to the slightly younger man, and Finnick will walk over hot coals to save him even as Harkin would shout, rant and rave in denial and try and be the one who does the saving.

_Like two peas in a pod, that was Harkin and he_, Finnick reflects; and yet, they were not. Not anymore. Snow had _ensured_ that.

_"Harkin!" Finnick was joyous and grateful. _

_The dark haired Victor was healthy and hale, his skin all but glowing as he strode beneath the harsh lighting. Beside him was Gloss, the older Victor looking gloating and triumphant as he dogged his Mentors heels like a faithful hound. Behind the two men strode Cashmere, her been eyes narrowed and confused as she watched Harkin pass his friends and acquaintances without speaking or looking at them. _

_Harkin turned to the younger man, confused and dark eyed with silent rage. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"_

* * *

><p><span>AN:

Cue screams of rage and despair...

Don't worry, you don't actually think I'll leave it like that, do you? There's far more at work here than you will see just yet.

Until next time, beloved readers, kindest regards,

Sar'Kalu


	18. Chapter 18

**[Unknown, Capitol City; 74 A. D. D.]**

It is dark. So very dark.

His eyes flutter open and he cannot see.

So dark. So cold.

Goosebumps travel the length of his skin and pain follows swiftly after. He trembles and keens.

It is so very dark…

…

…

"Mr. Black!" A voice calls, ringing in his sensitive ears like an alarm. "Mr. Black!"

He wakes, eyes fluttering open only to shut once more as pain spikes through them and through his brain. He groans and shifts his weight, aware, for the first time, of the table beneath his back. The press of cold metal on his skin.

"Mr. Black…" The voice fades as his vision does and he fights but he doesn't remember much at all.

Who is he?

…

…

_Laughter sings to him and he opens his eyes to a tumble-down house against a bright blue sky. Children shout and laugh and he turns from the house and stares into the concerned eyes of his wife._

_"Harry," she says, bemused as she presses her warm hands against his robe clad skin. "Harry!"_

_He blinks and his face splits into a warm smile, "sorry Gin," he apologises although he can't remember why._

_"Are you okay? You took quite a tumble!" 'Gin' is red haired and brown eyes, her face a picture of concern that bleeds to relief as she notices his responsiveness._

_"I'm fine," he says automatically. Like it is expected of him. "I had the strangest dream. I was a Black and very dangerous."_

_Gin laughs, "well, you're Lord of Black," she admits cheerfully, hugging him tightly. "But I think you'll always be a Potter, Harry, you're too sweet to be dangerous!"_

_He grins and tugs her into his arms, deepening his voice roguishly and winks, "I'm not dangerous enough for you, beloved?"_

_"Always," she laughs again, her eyes shining. "Always."_

…

…

"Mr. Black!" The voice is back and so are the lights. It's blinding and harshly cold here.

He moans and squirms, trying to evade the cold hands and tight grips that assail his body. He wants to return to Gin and the brown falling-down house and the golden afternoon they'd spent together.

"Mr. Black!"

He's not a Black, Gin said so.

He's a Potter.

Harry Potter.

"Mr. Black! Can you hear us?!"

Yes, he can. He just doesn't want to. Darkness roils about him and he groans. "No!" He shouts, he can speak. His throat aches and his eyes burn. He stills and faints. Darkness overtakes him once more.

…

…

_"Daddy! Daddy!" A tiny girl with red hair and brown eyes flings herself into his arms._

_He stumbles and catches her, "Lily!" He cries joyfully, it's been so long. So very long since he has seen her last._

_"Dad!" A deeper, warbling voice, a boy this time. Brown eyed and brown haired with the most mischievous smile._

_"James," he smiles pleased beyond measure as a third body rams into him._

_"Missed you, Da," Albus mutters, his lanky thirteen year old body trembling with the force of his emotions. He looks exactly like his Dad, messy dark hair and bright green eyes. He's quiet too and for Harry, it's like looking at a ghost of his childhood._

_"Albus," Harry grins. "Who's been good for Mum?" His question opens up shrieks of "I was! I was!" from his youngest and eldest while Albus clings to him tightly and stares up at him with big green eyes._

_"Why did you leave us, Da?" Albus asks him quietly. "Why did you kill those people, Harry?"_

_Harry barely hears him but feels as though he's been gutted. "Albus…?"_

_Albus seems to grow taller, his eyes bleeding blue and his hair silver. "I'm so disappointed in you, Mr. Black," the man says. "WHat have you done?"_

_"Who are you?" He demands roughly, gripping the mans shoulders and shaking him. "What have you done with my son?"_

_"Harry!" A voice shrieks and he turns, stares at the woman with red hair and brown eyes, two children cowering behind her._

_"Gin," he whispers, "what have I done?"_

…

…

He falls…

…

…

He fades…

…

…

He wakes…

…

…

And screams…

…

…

Beside him, Death sits and waits, for him to return once more…

...

...


	19. Chapter 19

Minor warning. Nothing major.

...

...

* * *

><p><strong>[Unknown, Capitol City; 74 A. D. D.]<strong>

He feels like screaming as hesitantly approaches _her_ door in his ill-fitting finery. His tie is loose about his neck and embroidered with dark green silk while his shirt shimmers pale in the moonlight. To _her_ door. His pants hang low on his hips, narrow and firm with muscular flesh as he sways drunk on the thought of _her_. He hesitates, a hand raised and deliberate.

He knocks. Upon _her_ door.

She opens, her brown eyes smiling wide and gentle like does eyes and she reaches out and takes his hand, drawing him within and closing _her_ door. He stands there and stares at her in glorious amazement, takes in her ivory dress that is subtly embroidered with white silk thread and figures of exotic birds leap from within the flame like patterns and he feels completely and utterly at home.

Tears well within his eyes and she slips into his embrace, kissing them away.

"Make love to me," she bids him, and ever her adoring subject, he slides his hands along her neck and shoulders, pushing the straps of her dress from them.

He bends ever so slightly, she is more his equal than in wits and physique, yet he cannot help but love their barely-there height difference, feeling that it makes her more special and fantastical. Trailing his lips along her throat, her clavicles, her shoulders, he lights a fire wherever he goes and she gasps and moans, her chest heaving beneath his and her eyes growing hazy and dark. It's a heady power he wields as fingers slide behind and draw the fragile zip ever down, baring luscious skin for his hungry eyes to see.

It's an intricate dance they breathe, fingers sliding and dipping over zips, buttons and seams, pushing fabric away and revealing heated skin for questing lips, tongues and eyes. As they breathe, so their fires are stoked and grown, and they breathe hard and heavy, panting and struggling to draw this out long enough to enjoy, forgetting that they will have many many more times than this. But it is oh so hard to see when all you can see are stars and suns that dance through their minds like a cacophonous burst of colour and light.

He bends her over the bed, kissing the hollow of her throat, bare as the day he was born and drags his hands down her chest, breasts and hips, settling upon her thighs and drawing them up and open. He settles between them, his forehead pressed tightly to her sternum as he fights with his horrible desire to sink into her like knife through butter and nestle like a child in his mothers embrace. She raises her hands and runs them through his hair, raising his head to stare into his eyes while wrapping glorious legs about his waist and, with stunning control, sinks upon him with only the barest guidance.

They gasp, eyes wide. They breathe, chests expanding. He groans, pulling out. She moans, pulling him in. They knot their fingers together, equals in this, in life and in everything ever more. _He cannot last_, he thinks as he makes motions millions of years old. The old push-pull that started them, their species and their children. He's tightening within her embrace as she throws her head back and arches beneath him beautifully, as if she subject to ecstasy so great that it surely must be akin to pain and he bends over her, bunching his abdominal muscles and closes his eyes…

…

…

… And steps into a parlour. Through _her_ door.

She stands demure beside her father, her eyes crystalline blue and sharper than diamonds, and hair redder than any blood he has ever spilled. She watches him warily and he wonders why he is here. The Father is tall and broad with bright blue eyes and dark hair that is untainted by product or design, looking more like a man from the Districts than the Capitol.

_"You have been chosen to teach my daughter about pleasures of the flesh."_

These are his instructions and then he is guided to the guest room and locked inside with the girl who cannot be more than fourteen staring at him with those wide blue eyes and red, red hair. He approaches her, eyes bland and face dulled. He is eighteen. Nineteen. It doesn't matter. Not here. Not anymore. What does age matter when you are bought by all and had killed more than your fair share.

She's crying as he divests her of her clothing clinically, hands barely brushing her dewy skin that shows more than her blank face just how nerve wracked she is and he feels absolutely awful as he stops, hands hovering above her tiny, pert little breasts and meets her eyes with his own dark forbidding gaze.

"It's not supposed to be like this," she whispers and turns her face away, shamed and fearful but accepting.

He hums noncommittally and snaps her bra free of her body and pulls it gently from her arms and over her wrists and hands. "It never is," he agrees calmly, like he isn't about to rape a girl four, maybe five years younger than him. Like he isn't raping a girl with her fathers explicit permission and expectation. Like he hasn't sold his soul to the devil.

She lies passively beneath his touch as he shows her how to shiver beneath his touch. He is gentle and kind and he thinks that maybe, that will be enough. That he might rape this girls body but will have preserved her soul enough that she can remain somewhat innocent and child-like. Even though he knows that is impossible.

She cries as he dips into her nubile body, breaching her with his hot, heavy erection that it like a hot blade through butter. Cruel to be kind, he gets it over quickly before then teaching her how to pleasure a man. Then, with an enigmatic face, swiftly teaches her how to hold a knife and to stick it where it hurts. He has created a monster tonight, a girl who knows to bring pleasure and pain in equal measure, but if it protects her, he feels this is an adequate price to pay.

Absolution where the is none. An overture of apology that will never be accepted.

Her eyes are ice as he leaves and her face immobile and all he can see is the red, red hue of her hair that bleeds across her oh-so pale face and crystalline blue gaze…

…

…

"I love you."

…

…

"I hate you."

…

…

She whispers to him, staring at him adoringly, staring at him with loathing and their features, - _one brown eyed and lovely and the other blue eyed and furious_ - bleed and overlap like bad television reception and it's all he can do to remain calm. To remain sane.

One he _yearns_ for. The other, he _bleeds_ for.

…

…

_I know._

…

…

* * *

><p><span>AN:

Things are going to be a bit weird now, in case people haven't noticed because they've not read the 'prequel' to this fiction, Harry/Harkin doesn't remember his previous lives, human minds are not designed to hold more than one set of memories but it's not _impossible_. The barriers between lives, specifically first and current, are breaking down. Like I said, things are about to get really, very weird and probably will be for the next few chapters.

Regards,

Sar'Kalu


	20. Chapter 20

**[Unknown, Capitol City; 74 A. D. D.]**

Snow stands above him as he wakes from slumber. Memory of times passed blur the lines between reality and falsity. He stares at the pallid, swollen face of the President, struggling to place the man within his mind and memories and as he does he draws away, a green tint bleeding about his mouth and it's all he can do to not be sick upon the shiny patent leather shoes of Panem's President and ruler.

"Mr. Black," Snow states slowly and deliberately, his pale eyes watching him carefully. "Are you with us, Mr. Black?"

Harkin nods, his hair brushing the tops of his eyebrows telling the tale of a long stay in Hospital, for that is where he must be with its white walls and irritating machines.

"Good," Snow says coldly, turning on the balls of his feet and striding towards the door. "You will be signed out later this afternoon, Mr. Black. The Games are over and your presence is demanded at the Closing Ceremony."

With that Snow leaves him to stare at the white walls and ceiling, trying to sort through the uncomprehending jumble of memories that cling to the sides of his mind like burrs. Who was he? Where is he? Why was he here?

Nurses and Doctors file into his room, undoing the restraints that bound him to his bed and he watches them work with confusion and concern. Why would be be bound? Was he truly that dangerous? Information swirls around him and he takes none of it in. Within moments, within what feels like seconds, he is standing in the glaring sunlight in a city of glass and before a blonde duo who cling to his arms and guide him to a car.

He sways between them, struggling to remember their names and nothing but fear, terror, disgust and sorrow is inspired by them. They are careful to introduce themselves Gloss and Cashmere as they slide him onto a leather seat of the purest white in a car that smelt of blood and roses. For some reason this scent makes him gag and curl into Cashmere's body, as if she would protect him, and away from Gloss who watches him with hungry eyes.

They lead him from the car into a tall building of black stone and black glass that shines like obsidian in the bright sun. There is something about it that reminds him of a castle in the North Sea… figures draped in black… a cold wind whipping him… night dark hair and eyes… mad laughter echoing…

He shivers and shakes the memories free, stepping into the shade with a glad heart and avoiding the bemused eyes of the people around him that watch him cruelly. One man with savagely intent eyes that promises pain and blood should they cross paths again. He shudders and darts into the newly opened elevator, nearly knocking into a woman with bright brown eyes and luscious brown hair that falls in near ringlets down her back. She is wearing a sneer and an ivory gown with leaves patterned across her back and breasts to gather about her waist and trail down her skirts.

He apologises.

She stares.

Gloss snarls furious, "back off, Johanna!" Eyes fierce and protective, hands possessive and demanding.

Johanna sneers and exits before the doors snap closed. He's not sorry to see her go.

The lift rises, carrying them to the first floor and they exit into a lounge like room, Cashmere all but dragging him through a crowd of people who watch and stare. Unnerved he ducks his head and follows his two guides closely, feeling unsafe and off kilter. A man with golden hair and bright green eyes waylays them, his expression joyous.

"Harkin!" The man's voice all but sings with joy and gladness.

He stares, feeling the name rebelled deep within him yet accepted as who he is, confused, he wrinkles his brow and speaks:

_"__I'm sorry, do I know you?"_

…

…


	21. Chapter 21

**[District One Suite, Tribute Centre, Capitol City; 74 A.D.D]**

Harkin huddles beneath his blankets having sent Gloss and Cash from his rooms. He's less confused now and his mind is settling into a kind of stillness that reminds him of something. Occ- something. He grunts as he punches his pillow and rolls over, missing his door sliding open and tousled haired man slipping in. it's not until his bed dips beneath another weight that he turns and realises that he is no longer alone.

Golden hair, sea green yes and a thin, sun weathered face. "Finnick," Harkin breathes desperately, shocked.

Finnick smiles, tilting his lips in amusement. "Harkin," he replies as though it's been weeks instead of hours since the other man had left him, devastated, in the Victor's Lounge, heart at his feet. "You remember me." At Harkin's confused expression, Finnick elaborates, "Cashmere explained."

"My mind was… overwhelmed," Harkin admits, shuddering. "They tried to wipe it, to twist me into the perfect slave but it broke something. Something hidden." He turns desperate eyes to Finnick and his breath whistles from his lungs that clench in his chest, "somethings wrong with me. I'm not who I thought I was!"

"Are we ever?" Finnick snorts sarcastically, bitterly remembering a time when he'd thought he'd never do anything as disgusting as selling himself for safety. That the Games would free him from the Capitols reach. Instead, the opposite had happened.

Harkin shakes his head and reaches up to grab Finnick's shoulder, "not that," he whispers hoarsely. "I don't mean that."

"What do you mean then?" Finnick feels bemused and concerned yet, is equally convinced that his friend is being dramatic and humorous.

Harkin stares at him hollowly, "I remember living…"

"Okay…?" Finnick trailed off in confusion.

"Twice I have lived. Once as Harry James Potter, when I had children and a wife and was… magic," Harkin smiles, stunned and gloriously happy, he turns his gaze to Finnick, who stares, shocked. Had it not for Harkin's inability to imagine anything but the life they lived, Finnick could almost pretend that his friend was lying. Saying things. "The other as… me. Harkin Black."

"How is that possible?" Finnick demands, making to stand up and free himself of Harkin's strong grip.

"No!" Harkin raps out hoarsely. "No," he grabs Finnick's shirt and strokes his hair, looking deranged. "Don't go. Please, don't leave me."

"Okay," Finnick says soothingly, "okay," he repeats, wrapping his hand about Harkin's wrist, restraining him. "I won't leave," he promises.

"Good," Harkin breathes, still not entirely seeing Finnick but rather his wife. Ginny. Red hair and brown eyes. Ginevra W- he frowns. Wesley? No, Weasel? Weasley? He shrugs, dismissive. "I loved her," he says, marvelling that he even knew what that had felt like, even if it hadn't been him. Not really. It had been Harry who had loved Ginny. Not him. "I loved her so much," he repeats in awe.

"Who?" Finnick is looking more and more alarmed as time goes on.

Harkin meets his eyes, the startling colour of his iris' lancing through Finnick's heart and soul, shocking him. "Ginny," Harkin breathes the name like a prayer and Finnick feels an irrational hatred and jealousy of whoever made Harkin speak like that.

Finnick sneers, forgetting briefly, in his rage, all about Annie Cresta. Sweet Annie Cresta who awaited him in Four, patiently and kindly. Loving him even though he loved another. Annie who understood his obsession and desire for the man in front of him and loved him anyway. Loved him to the best of her ability and for that he loved her too. But sometimes, now included, when Harkin looks at him as though he is the only man in the world, Finnick forgets all about Sweet Annie Cresta, forgets all about the inappropriateness of his feelings and dares to dream that Harkin can love him as more than a son, as a brother. Perhaps, one day, as a lover. While knowing that this can never be and his hearts breaks all over again.

"Who is _Ginny_?!" Finnick speaks her name like it is the foulest poison, vitriol marring every syllable and is thankful that Harkin is oblivious in this as everything else.

Harkin smiles beatifically, "Harry's wife."

"She's married?" Finnick is confused and less hateful, because married means unavailable, and that means he's still in with a chance.

"Was," Harkin shoots him a confused look that Finnick is at a loss to interpret.

"I don't understand," Finnick admits finally and doesn't that just _burn_?

Harkin rolls his eyes fondly, the expression soothing something deep within Finnick, who smiles, happy. "Idiot," Harkin sighs. "Harry Potter is, to my apparent recollection, a past life of mine. Or so it appears."

Finnick stares, because only Harkin Black could admit to remembering a past life as though it is nothing and act like it is normal. "A past life?" Finnick chokes, surprised beyond measure.

"Precisely," he says. "Ginny is his wife. He- _I_ adored her. I… still _do_…" Harkin admits this with a wondering expression, lost within his recollections. He then turns to Finnick with a confused expression, "Who…? No!" He raises a hand and presses it to his head and closes his eyes, blinking rapidly and blearily… "Finnick…?" He shakes his head slowly and Finnick has the feeling that Harkin is loosing himself to his memories, to Harry Potter's memories and does the only thing he can think of…

He kisses him…

…

…

* * *

><p><span>AN:

For everyone who all but screamed for it, here you go, a little slice of Finnick/Harkin-Harry. I've had to rewrite chapter 17 slightly, so it flows better with this chapter and explains more about Finnick and Harkin's interactions. I hope you're not all horribly unhappy with this. This is _still_ not a Finnick/Harkin story, sorry guys.

Regards,

Sar'Kalu


	22. Chapter 22

**[Studio HG, Capitol City; 74 A.D.D]**

They sit in their chairs overwhelmed and wide eyed as they stare out over the cheering and screaming crowds. It's all a blur, she thinks, clutching his hand in hers and feeling his bones grind against each other even as hers do the same. They're trembling so very badly and they feel so very scared and close to crying. Unused to this, even now.

They're clinging to each other as though they are each others island in this life of madness. The quiet of the forest, the dangers of the Games seem so very real and her eyes are darting from person to person as though she seeks for their betrayal; and yet, they feel disconnected, that the sounds of the cheers and the screams are hidden within a soap bubble, that if it pops it will all be over and her life will never be the same again.

The dialogue flows unceasingly between them, her occasional soft voiced answers differing to her companions more strident determination and adoration, his gaze never faltering from her profile. Trusting in their safety.

Before them Caesar sits and smiles cheerfully, his teeth flashing white against his blue suit, his blue eyes, his blue hair and his pale skin. She cringes slightly as he snatches up her hand, sympathetic but guiding and probing in his questions. Peeta coils around her, protective and possessive, hazel eyes flashing dangerously. She smiles as she answers, gazing at Peeta in adoration, able to draw up the false emotion that is closer to thankfulness and a misplaced sense of safety in his presence.

She has not forgotten that without Peeta, she would be dead, but neither does she forget that if not for Peeta, she would surely be happier. More content.

"The Star Crossed Lovers from District Twelve!"

Their farewell, Peeta draws her up and guides her down the stairs and they smile and wave prettily to the crowds, fighting their nausea and panic at the noise. They have been crowned as the glorious winners, yet all Katniss can wonder is, _have they won at all?_

…

…

* * *

><p>AN:

Super short, but more of a lead in, than anything else.

Review if you need clarifications about anything, some folks have mentioned being confused without telling me why, which is then impossible to explain because I am not a mind reader (I failed that class in High School).

Regards,

Sar'Kalu


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N:**

Hello my lovelies,

I have had a good deal of feedback from you all regarding confusion about the recent crazy metaphysics of the last few chapters.

Basically, Snow's abuse of Harkin pissed Gloss off that he tried to 're-write' Harkin's experiences with his own possession filled sexual abuse because he's obsessed with Harkin, the kind of obsession that comes from owing someone your life and sanity over many, many years. Don't judge him too harshly.

Then, much like the tale of the straw that broke the camels back, Gloss' abuse shatters Harkin in a way that Snow tried to as it was too much on his already fragile mind. You must remember that Harkin has spent most of two decades fulfilling the worst of the Capitols desires along with his own friends, who want to forget their own experiences by using Harkin as something 'real'.

Finnick then goes to Snow in concern and Snow kidnaps Harkin, who he no longer fully trusts, and attempts to Hijack him (like he does with Peeta in Mockingjay) but the mental strain instead buckles an already broken mind and cuts through the walls that Death erected with Harkin's re-birth, thus releasing Harry Potter on Panem. He's still struggling with these memories so he's going to act a bit weird until he can settle them within his mind. You'll see a bit of Harry shining through too, and Harkin's already self-sacrificing nature is about to get doubled.

Also expect several existential crises as things develop; it's about to get angsty in here.

Kindest regards and I hope this clears things up, I'll go back and re-write the chapters that are confusing people so much. Please keep in mind I have no Beta reader and mistakes will be made; I appreciate you all pointing them out to me.

Sar'Kalu

...

...

* * *

><p><strong>[Training Rooms, Tribute Centre, Capitol City; 74 A.D.D]<strong>

He stands tall and strong in a pool of white light, his eyes closed and his expression at peace. It was a lie. A terrible lie and his hands clench about the heavy wood haft of his spear. A tassel hanging from the neck, the blade more like a leaf than a pike, the edge is deadly and sharp, and gleaming with frightening promise.

He moves smoothly, one foot forward, the heel slamming into the soft padded floor. The other sliding back and testing to the side as his body extends, one arm back empty palmed with his fingers flared with. The other hand bore the spear, the tassel swinging wildly and heavy enough to force the tip to dip and sway.

He stills, chin pressed to his chest with his eyes tightly closed. With great control he lifts his hand up, the blade of the spear swinging wide and around his body, parallel with his other arm. He twists on the ball of his forefoot, while his rear foot twists on the heel as his body sways and corrects his centre of balance. Reminding himself of whom he had been, once, long ago.

Eyes snap open as memories crowd beneath the surface of his mind and frustration overrules him. With a great, resounding roar, he spins around once more, this time sloppy and rage filled, and hauls the spear overhead and sending the tip deeply into the wood of the humanoid target, shocking the watcher behind him.

Harkin panted heavily, for days now he has been working tirelessly to remind himself of the present, to forget his past as Harry Potter. But those memories feel fresher than Harkin's own and it's like wrestling with a dragon on the ocean fifty miles deep. He's treading water while dodging burning fire and feeling like any moment he will either drown in Harry's or loose himself within both his and another's mind.

A soft footfall and a gentle hand on his shoulder has him turning around and he meets Kitten's gaze with such terribly sad eyes. Within her own he can see the scars that have long since been polished away by the best cosmetic surgeons that money can buy. Already she is lost and drowning within the parties, the expectations and responsibilities of being a Victor and he wonders whom she shall emulate.

Johanna, Finnick, or Annie.

The Feral Wildcat, the Capitol Whore, or, the Mad and Broken Woman.

"Hello." Kitten smiles, her grey eyes silently proud yet deeply bruised and broken beneath.

He can sympathise, he realises, he would just rather not because already he can feel the heat, the roughness of the sand and the heavy wood of his spear in his hand while the scent of baking coppery blood and the ghost-feeling of hot air rushes through his lungs, scorching them inside out. Grey eyes swim before his gaze, turning blue and widening with shock as blood spills from her open mouth and her dark, dark hair is like snow and shining beneath a midday sun like silver and gold.

"Eff-" He stops, biting his tongue and swallowing his guilt stricken words before they can spill from his numb and tired lips. She tilts her head to the side, her eyes all too knowing and he feels cornered like a cat in a dog run. "Kitten," he says with an admirable show of nonchalance yet she doesn't buy it. "How does it feel to be a Victor?"

Mocking now, she notes quietly, taking in his green eyes that have heavy bruises beneath them and the way his skin is drawn tightly across his cheek bones. He hasn't slept in days, if not weeks. There is a frailty to him that says louder than words that the Capitol has not been kind to him. She doesn't ask because she's not sure she wants to know. She watches him instead, wondering if she should be here, if he even needs her. Surely he's not alone. Not looking like this.

"Perfect," she replies eventually to his question, pretending as though it doesn't cut to the quick.

As though she doesn't wake up screaming each morning seeing Cato sliding beneath the feral mutts; or watching Rue being skewered by a spear much like Harkin's own, blood gushing from her mouth.

As though everything is fine and dandy in this cold and lonely world, where she has won and feels grateful for that fact; rather than cold and disconnected as she smiles at the men and women around her.

As though she doesn't hate Peeta for not letting her suicide, as though she doesn't hate Prue for making her stay behind.

As though she doesn't hate herself for living when twenty-two others did not.

"Liar." Harkin states with confidence, his dark eyes luminous beneath the cold lights of the training room. She glares at him, hating him too, because she cannot run away. Not from him. Her leaving him would not stop him from seeing. From knowing.

"Am not," she mutters petulantly, wrapping her arms about herself tightly, all bones and thin muscles.

Harkin smirks, more bitter than amused. He reaches out and draws her into a tight hug, pressing her thin, thin body to his broad, muscular and all together alive chest and she draws more comfort from that than Peeta's long, late night cuddles when neither of them can stop screaming and Haymitch is so lost that all he can do is drink and sit with them until the sun rises in the east, turning the night sky a steel grey tinted red that looks like the swords, spears, bows and arrows of the arena, and she wonders if she'll ever look at something as simple as a dawn without feeling the need to vomit and tear out her eyes so that she doesn't see the dead eyes and faces staring up at her.

She shudders against him and presses in even further, and his hands rub along her shoulders and back, avoiding her sides and neck, knowing that to touch them would send her into paroxysms of fear and panic. He presses his chin to the top of her head and holds her tight and wonders why he, not her mentor, is the one to hold on to her like she might collapse and fall into a million pieces.

Eventually the tears start. Softly at first, hitching breaths and quiet tears that roll inextoribly from her eyes. Not the corners, they're too full for that. No, they spill like great waves from the centre. Big fat drops that stain his shirt with salt and water, her nose running and bubbling with every hitching breath; and then the crying starts.

Gasping and clutching, she's holding onto him like he might disappear with a breath of wind and she presses her face into his neck. Their skin moves slickly together, lubricates with tears and snot, and he wants to wipe it away but he cannot move her, so tightly she clings to him as though he is the singular immovable object in her world.

By the time she's howling, her cries closer to short screams of lingering fear and the terror borne of guilt and sadness in knowing that you are one of two survivors in twenty-four children. Children whom you did not know, but held a bond of brotherhood with nonetheless. People whom you had spent three weeks training with; learning their tricks and traits, who are your enemies and who you can be allies with.

But more importantly, whom you can forgive and whom you cannot.

Harkin backs up, staggering slightly as she follows blindly, trustingly and perhaps foolishly and together they tumble over the edge of the training platform. Harkin is on his back and she's still clinging to him tightly, unaware of their slightly promiscuous position, but then, she's still crying and that's hardly romantic and she's half his age anyway.

He strokes her hair, humming lightly and soothingly when she lifts her blotchy face to meet his gaze with her red-rimmed eyes that look swollen and so very sad and he feels his heart clench deep within his chest.

"Thank you," she whispers looking slightly ashamed at her break down and as she ducks her face once more, hair sliding forwards -when was it unbound?- and covering her face, and he watches with sorrowful eyes that are too full of understanding and compassion and he doesn't blame her nor think her weak because he can remember his own terror filled nights where he screamed himself hoarse.

"Any time," he tells her gravely, lifting a hand to tilt her face back up and smiles at her gently. He doesn't feel so raw now. The memories simmer gently beneath his mind and they are not pressing for his attention. In those grey eyes he can see another girl with white blonde hair and terror filled eyes and knows that this is not the first time that he has comforted a crying girl and he runs another hand down her back and smiles at her slightly wider and kinder. "Any time," he repeats softly and gently and she smiles back in grateful wonder before dipping her head once more and pressing her forehead to his chest and breathing him in.

He lets his head fall back and rest against the metal of the tall stage and stares up at the bright white lights and then tilts his head to the side to gaze at the spear that still stands out from the wooden target, a picture of his rage that has simmered to a compassionate stillness that he feels at ease in. He sweeps a hand once more over her shoulders and back and smiles, his eyes falling closed as she sighs and relaxes, and together they drift into a silent kind of contentedness, drifting in and out of consciousness beneath the cold white lights of the Training Rooms…

…

...


	24. Chapter 24

**[Victor's Lounge, Tribute Centre, Capitol City; 74 A. D. D]**

Harkin is hiding in the corner when she appears at his elbow, her slate grey eyes flicking the the cup of white alcohol, creamy milk and coffee mix in his hand. It's sweet and sickly but the caffeine keeps him awake when his body would rather be unconscious in his bed.

She watches him for a while, eyes narrowed and cautious before returning her gaze to the gathering around them. "You hate them, don't you?" She murmurs softly, somehow understanding that things are complicated here. That he protects these people whom he (for the most part) greatly dislikes, from a fate worse than death, and yet is reviled and hated (by most people here) in turn, making their working relationships extremely difficult. "And they hate you."

"I am the bogeyman under the bed, Kitten," Harkin answers tiredly, taking another sip of his alcoholic mixture and wondering why the newest of their breed was so at ease with him. Perhaps because she was stubborn enough to ignore the rumours and make her own decisions? But even then, surely Haymitch and Cinna had warned her of him? He casts a slant eyed look at her, taking in her profile that seems oddly noble as she watches those around them and wonders, what makes her tick. Why him, of all people.

Katniss hums slightly, "I don't think I'm a kitten anymore, Old Wolf." She smiles lightly, at odd with the topic of their discussion because he knows, as she does, that her lack of innocence came from the Games and their consequences.

"Old Wolf?" He questions, humoured by her banter.

She smiles slightly maliciously, a keen gleam of cunning in her slate eyed gaze and he smirks back at her, amused by her games. "You're more a wolf than anyone here. A wolf in dogs clothing."

"Dogs?" He's close to snickering, catching Brutus' eye (he's glaring and smirking and Harkin wonders what's wrong with him) and knowing, as she does, that dog is the best description for most of their fellow victors.

"Oh yes," she drawls, shooting him a dry look. "Have you not noticed their adoration of their Capitol; bending to their every whim despite the whippings and cruelty given out almost daily?"

Harkin stills and his face turns to stone. "'Ware those words, little Kat," he rumbles, his voice deep and dark. "You would do well to not underestimate our Lord and Ruler. Safe though the tower is, in your District, home and the streets of the Capitol, speak not of your true feelings. It will mean their death."

"Who's?" Katniss asks gravely.

"Your families," Harkin says quietly. "All of them. All tapes pertaining to your relationships will have been studied closely. Leverage perceived. None of us truly love the Capitol, but sometimes it is better to love the Master you know than back the one unknown to you."

"Rebels," she breaths, shocked. "So, the rumours are true then."

Harkin grimaces but doesn't answer. He would never had answered her before Harry. He would have long since walked away, curiosity be damned, before Harry. He scans the crowd once more, Haymitch and Cinna are all but holding the second New Blood back, while Brutus is smiling nastily at him with Enobaria backing him, her teeth stained red from the berries tarts on display.

She's watching him warily, somehow guessing that she's crossed a line and she doesn't know how to fix it. The rules here are ever changing. Like lines in the sand on a windy day. Blurring and changing and at times, disappearing entirely. Harkin's tense and still and looking around him with narrowed eyes.

Harry is a problem that he is going to have to address, he realises quite suddenly. Harry who has known love, who has loved in return. Harkin didn't know love until he knew Harry and Ginny and Luna and James and Albus. His sons. His daughter. His wife. His nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers and lovers. Harry had been so loved. Harkin has never loved.

It's a dichotomy that splits him in two. The Lover and the Hater. He's closer to being Draco Malfoy than he is to being Harry Potter. The scapegoat, the fraud. Not the Boy Who Lived. Harkin has never been loved and so he doesn't know how to love. What he has with Finnick, with Johanna, with Haymitch, Effie and Cinna? That is not love. That is desperation and survival and hatred and knowing that he can save them from themselves without wondering _who is going to save him._

Word had got around, he knows this as he watches Brutus watch him. Katniss is at his side tense and unhappy and clearly wondering what the hell is going on. Finnick is oblivious, as always. He nursing his hurts from before; when Harkin had fled him with wide wyes and trembling hands into Cashmere's room. Hidden beneath her bed until the fed-up woman had pulled him out and slapped some sense into him.

Pain, not kindness, had brought Harkin back; he wonders what this means about him as a person. Does this make him a monster under the bed? A weapon to be discarded? Or a sex toy to be used and abused?

Beside him, Katniss would have been horrified to know that Harkin no longer considered himself human. As a person to be loved, respected, and held closely and protected. But she didn't know and neither did Finnick. Although Cashmere had guessed and watched him closely with sorrowful eyes.

"Number One!" Brutus finally yells, gathering up his courage and swaggers over towards Harkin with gleaming malicious eyes. "Heard you lost your memory!"

Cashmere shoots Finnick a betrayed glance and the Mentor from Four drops his shoulders and sinks into himself with clear horror. _He hadn't meant to_!

Harkin cocks his head to the side and raises a brow, he's more Harry now than ever before and Harry always relied on diplomacy, than violence, to fix things. A disciple of Albus Dumbledore's teachings. "I didn't loose anything," he drawls eventually, leaning against the wall behind him, his cup of warmed alcohol in his hand, the milk curdling in its plastic confines.

"That's not what Fin Finicky says, Pretty Boy," Brutus sneers cruelly, jabbing a finger into Harkin's solar plexus firmly. Harkin winces internally at the slight sting; he had a bruise there, left over from his time at Snows hands. "He says you're pretty fucking messed up. Got a whole lotta shit going down and half your smarts missing to boot."

"Still got half more smarts than you," Harkin snips and behind Brutus, Enobaria grins in wry agreement. She's clearly there for half-hearted support only, her dark eyes watching Brutus, more than he, for weakness.

Brutus smiles sweetly at him, apparently impressed with the quip, before snapping his fist up and forwards, brutally fast. Harkin's nose crunches inwards and his head cracks the wall behind him. He smiles dazedly at Brutus and whips the alcoholic, half-curdled milk mixture into Brutus' face, and as the other man shouts in shock and disgust, running his hands over his face to get the beverage out of his eyes, Harkin snaps a swift uppercut to his chin and knocks him out.

"Tie," he barks at Haymitch, Cinna and Chaff; all three immediately pulling their ties free and handing them over to Harkin, who had his own tie in hand, ready and waiting.

He moves swiftly, not one of the other Victors moving to stop him while Haymitch holds back the two New Bloods with strong arms. Harkin loops one tie about Brutus' feet and knots it tightly enough to cut off his blood circulation, another about his elbows with the same result and the third about his head and in his mouth to stifle any screams.

The fourth, fifth and sixth (donated from the ever eager Finnick and Gloss) are knitted together and lopped under the tie holding Brutus' feet together. Then, with a few grunts and one savage smile, Harkin swings the still unconscious Mentor from Two beneath the heavy looking glass and steel chandelier that lights the entrance hall of the tower.

Harkin regards his 'artwork' briefly before spinning around to eyeball his audience. With a bloodthirsty smile, he leans forwards and asks them a single question:

"Who among you thinks, that despite my apparent memory loss, that I am in anyway unable to handle myself and any of my challengers?"

…

…

**A/N:**

Yes, Harkin is back and he's bigger than ever.

Regards,

Sar'Kalu


	25. Chapter 25

**[District One Train, Panem; 74 A. D. D.]**

It was so easy, he thought, looking out over the hills that seemed to whip by in a blur of greens, browns and blues. Go in, fuck people, get out, go back to life as they knew it. The Games were a bunch of mystical bullshit that were dusted off for close to two months of a year with nearly eight months of preparation put into it. Harkin often wonders if the Capitol knew just how much they spent on something that everyone in the Districts would prefer to never happen again.

His shoulders were bleeding again and his shirt stuck to the whip marks like glue to paper. He has no idea why he did what he'd just done… He grimaces and shifts on his seat. Well, that's not strictly true, now is it?

He sighs and turns his face away to look out over the empty carriage that swayed with ever thud of steel wheels on iron sleepers and wonders just how depressed One is. It has been three months since the Reaping and it would be another four until the Tour. Not a Victory Tour; you never won the Hunger Games. Not really.

Movement by the doorway has him turning around to meet Cashmere's tear streaked face and he feels something whither and die in his chest. He's aching and sore as he looks at her luminous eyes and her furious face and he knows that he's about to be torn to shreds by an angry woman. Behind Cash he can see Gloss looking at him with hungry eyes before he slips backwards and enters his room, wary of his sister whilst she's so furious.

Both men had been scarred by Cashmere's blades before and neither really want to tempt her fury by tangling with her while she's like this. Harkin actually sinks into his chair before stiffening his spine and reminding himself that he's _Harkin fucking Black_ and he backs away from _no one_.

Cashmere stalks into the carriage and crosses the floor with long jarring strides that leave dints in the soft carpet. Her hand swings out of its own accord and his head snaps backwards in shock, having not actually expected her to strike him, before she launches herself into his chest and slams the breath from his body.

"How could you?!" She demands of him, tears falling from her eyes in renewed despair. "What have you done, Harkin?!"

Harkin encircles her with his strong arms and holds her to him, ignoring the way she stiffens and then attempts to pull away. He tightens his hold and hums lightly, stroking his hand over her golden hair and brushing a kiss against her forehead softly.

"I did what I thought was necessary," he rumbles and Cashmere pulls back far enough to peer up at his face, streaks of mascara and eyeliner making her look like she has wings of black beneath her eyes. It doesn't detract at all from her appearance and she just looks solemn and fragile in his arms, her heart in her eyes and his heart contracts in pain and fear for her. "I'm not sorry."

Cashmere chokes out a sob and burrows back into his chest, her shoulders shaking and trembling from the force of her cries. She knows him far too well to ever believe that he's the slightest bit sorry for his actions. "You stupid, _stupid_ man!"

She frees her arms enough to beat at his chest, arms, shoulders and face; whatever part of his body she can reach is within striking range of her furious fists. When that doesn't get a rise out of him, she starts to squirm and shout at him, her voice rising and falling like the tide, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, her tongue a barb that she doesn't hold back and Harkin can feel the pain that her well placed jabs inspires but he knows she doesn't mean it and so he just holds her tighter and whispers that he'll never let her go.

"I can't believe you!" She rages, slamming her fists against his chest and sending the breath whooshing from his lungs. Cashmere might not look like much more than a socialite, but she is a Victor the same as he and knows how to throw a punch. "You went to him! After everything he's done to you! How could you go back to him!"

"I had to," Harkin grunts. "I was summoned."

"Then un-summon yourself next time!" She shrills, squirming and writhing in his restrictive arms. "You are so fucking _stupid_, Harkin; are you _trying_ to get yourself killed? Do you _really_ think so little of yourself that you _seek_ _to die_?! Have you no _sense_?!"

"I was doing what I thought was right!" Harkin barks, getting an uppercut to his windpipe for his trouble and he chokes while Cashmere pounds at his shoulders, still crying and still angry but becoming more and more resigned to the fact that the love of her life was utterly stupid and unthinking. Like she didn't know this before.

"Right!" Cashmere pulls back and stares into his eyes in utter terror, "did you know what I thought when you left announcing that you were going to demand that next year was to be the last Hunger Games?!" She's staring at him with frightening intensity and Harkin feels his stomach coil and curdle in fear. "I thought I would never see you again! I thought that I would never be able to talk to you, to laugh with you about the stupid, _stupid_ tributes we get each year! I thought I would never be able to make fun of the costumes with you ever again! That I had lost you!

"Do you know what that is like, Harkin Black?!" She demands, her hands on either side of his face as she straddles his lap and Harkin can see the transparent truth in her eyes and he recognises it for what it is; because while he is so terribly broken, Harry hadn't been and Harry had gloried in the same emotion with Ginny. Love. Cashmere loved him.

Not Finnick's desperate love. Not Gloss' kind of despairing, possessive love. Not Snow's controlling, sadistic love of making him know his place. Nor Aquavirius' love-hate of making him bleed and scream his name.

No, this love was the pure kind. The settle down in a house with a white picket fence kind of love that lasts for decades and leaves both people with that wonderful feeling of contentment in their bellies and in their hearts as they watch their children, grandchildren and maybe even their great-grandchild love, laugh, grow and, above all, _live_.

Cashmere loved him and didn't expect anything in return; and Harkin had never been so terrified…

…

...


	26. Chapter 26

**[Victor's Palace, District One, Panem; 74 A. D. D.]**

It has been days since he had fled Cashmere's too intense gaze on that damned train. Days since they had arrived back in One to the hollow, judgemental eyes of their District. Days since he had holed himself up in his house with bottles of white liquor and refined white bread that just about damn near melt in your mouth as you eat them.

Days since he had worked himself into a panic of "what the fuck should I do?"

Because Harkin was not Harry. Harkin knows that love is just as bad as hate; and he has known too much pain at the hands of people who claim to love him.

Snow. Gloss. Finnick. Aquavirius. Dahlia.

Countless others.

Love is just as evil as Hate. Both are extremes on opposite sides of the spectrum and he trusts neither.

Harkin is not Harry, who loved to love. Harkin is not Harry, who loved despite how hated he was. Harkin is not Harry, who actually knew how to love.

Harkin is not Harry. Not anymore.

Harkin is a man who was subjected to bitter training from a young age. Forced to sleep in the cold. Forced to steal, hunt and kill for his food and safety.

Harkin is a man who has been systematically abused and used since he was fifteen years old.

Harkin is a man who has seen nothing but the worst of human nature until he now thinks it is normal. He has never known a love but what his clients call it. Harkin's love is the colour of blood and written into his skin and bones with silver scars and black fractures.

Harkin is a man broken and battered by this life he leads.

Harkin is a man; Harry was a boy.

Harkin Black is not, nor will he ever be Harry Potter because they are too different; and Cashmere's silent declaration terrified him more than he was willing to admit because all he could see was the blood, the scars, the broken bones that love had brought him.

Harkin had no understanding of anything different and so expected nothing less.

For Harkin Black, Love was as, if not more, damaging than Hate, and he did not understand why anyone would want to love or be loved by anybody else…

…

...


End file.
